Letters From My Sister

by Alice Peterson

  ‘It only comes in that colour, the colour she’s in.’ She bites her lip and looks away. If this shop had a box room that is where we would have ended up, and I realize I am no better than this girl. She wants to boot us out of here as soon as possible so we do not put off potential customers. How sad. How truly pathetic I am.

  ‘Really? But I’m sure I saw it in another colour.’ I walk over to the rails and, sure enough, the jacket does come in a different colour. In fact it comes in about four different shades and patterns. I take another one off the hanger and walk past the girl purposefully, back into the changing room. ‘Here we go Bells.’

  I hear more customers coming in. ‘Can I help you or are you browsing?’ a sugar-sweet voice asks them.

  This jacket buttons up smoothly. I stand back and tell Bells to come out. ‘You look lovely,’ I encourage her. We stand outside, behind a girl with honey-blonde hair. She poses in front of the mirror in pale blue jeans, holding up a black dress. Her boyfriend sits in the corner of the shop reading FHM. Bells shuffles forward, trying to catch a glimpse of herself. The girl moves out of the way and I thank her. Bells’s skirt trails on the ground like a train. It’s the right colour though because it brings out the green of her eyes. Every time I look into them I see Mum. Bells takes another step and then I hear a rip. Immediately I push her back into the changing room and examine the dress closely. There’s a large rip above the hem. ‘Bugger,’ I mutter. ‘Bugger.’

  ‘That black dress is fabulous,’ the shop girl is saying at the far side of the room. ‘It’s such a staple for your wardrobe, you can’t go wrong.’

  ‘Bugger,’ Bells repeats loudly.

  ‘Shh!’ I say, hearing footsteps coming towards our cubicle. ‘Get dressed quickly.’ I look at the pile of clothes. Once Bells is ready we walk out to the shop desk. I am ready to tell the girl what happened and buy the skirt. I can mend it at home.

  ‘Are you going to take that?’ she enquires, her voice straining to be polite.

  ‘You married?’ Bells asks her. ‘You have children?’ She steps forward to shake the girl’s hand. I can see she has her little electrical device ready. I am about to stop her but when I see the expression on the girl’s face I change my mind.

  ‘Oh my God!’ she yells and recoils as the device goes off, withdrawing her manicured hand in horror. Bells rocks forward in delight and I smile. The girl glares at us both with nothing but disdain now. ‘What happened to her?’ she spits, now looking directly at me. ‘Is she mad or something?’

  ‘“She”,’ I emphasize, ‘is called Bells. If you have a question, why don’t you ask her?’

  ‘Born with poorly brain and a cleft lip and palate,’ Bells says, just as Mum used to tell her.

  ‘If someone asks, you tell them straight. You have nothing to be ashamed of,’ I can hear her saying.

  ‘Will you be taking the skirt?’ the assistant demands, clearly not interested and still unable to look at Bells.

  ‘I’m afraid it has a rip in it so, no, thank you,’ I say, hardly believing that these words are coming out of my mouth. ‘We’re not interested in damaged goods,’ I carry on, relishing every word now. The shop girl claws the outfit away. ‘I’m sure there was nothing wrong with it earlier …’

  ‘You could always put it in the sale,’ I suggest helpfully.

  ‘You not very nice lady,’ Bells says to the girl. I walk out, holding on to my sister’s arm. ‘Not very nice lady,’ she repeats, shaking her head. ‘Katie, not very nice lady.’

  ‘No, not nice at all.’

  *

  I take Bells out for lunch. ‘No more shops, Katie,’ she’d said. I order a glass of wine and a Coca-Cola.

  We still haven’t found her an outfit but I’m determined not to give up. The main thing was that we’ve bonded over the nasty girl in the shop. It felt surprisingly good, taking on that girl. The look on her face! I watch Bells as she looks at the menu. She still hasn’t mentioned anything to me about that conversation with Sam. I wonder how she feels now. She looked so hurt earlier this morning, so vulnerable.

  Why didn’t I tell Sam about her? I suppose the reason is simple. We tell friends about the things we feel comfortable with, proud of. I like to share the good times with Sam, I like the glossy world we have created together. Sam the hotshot guy in the City; Katie who runs her own business. There is little room for imperfection in that scenario. Why would I tell him about Bells when I feel so guilty that I ignore her letters, that I am a useless sister, that I resented her so much as a child for taking all the attention away from me? That I did stupid unoriginal things to turn the attention back on me? Talking about Bells brings back a lot of memories I’d rather erase. It feeds the corrosive guilt inside me. But I realize none of this makes it forgivable. Sam was right.

  ‘Bells, about what you heard earlier …’

  ‘You ashamed.’

  ‘I am sorry, Bells, so sorry. Can we make a fresh start? You have one more week with me in London and I’d really like to make it up to you.’ I realize I can’t say I’m not embarrassed when Bells says hello to everything that moves; when she asks people why they have no hair, or why they have ‘only the one leg’. Most people would be embarrassed, wouldn’t they? ‘Bells, it was wrong of me not to tell Sam about you, I don’t know why I didn’t. It was one of those things you do and then wish you could rewind time.’

  Bells doesn’t say anything.

  ‘Where’s the thingy that vibrates?’ I laugh nervously as I take her hand. ‘Friends,’ I tell her, but still do not feel I have said sorry properly.

  I have an uneasy feeling lingering in the pit of my stomach. I start to think of all the times when people asked me at parties, ‘Do you have brothers or sisters?’ and I replied that I was an only child because I couldn’t face the follow-on questions: Where does she live? What does she do? In the evening, when I am getting ready for bed, I say a quiet prayer to God, asking his forgiveness for denying her. That makes me feel better, that I won’t go straight down to hell.

  I look at Bells, who is drinking her Coke so quickly that she starts to make loud slurping noises through her straw. I am not going to look around to see if anyone is staring. But then she makes one final slurping noise which sounds as if it will blow the place down. Without thinking I do glance around, but in fact no one is looking at us. They are too interested in their own drinks and food. I order her another Coke. ‘Bells, the thing Sam said about being ashamed of you …’

  ‘It’s all right, Katie,’ she interrupts, looking at the framed poster on the wall.

  ‘No, it’s not all right. I am not ashamed of you, I promise you. The only person I am ashamed of is myself.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Sometimes I find it hard …’ I don’t know how to end my sentence so I start again. ‘To be honest, I was dreading you coming to stay.’ I don’t look at her because I am scared of hurting her. ‘You remind me of everything I don’t have.’

  ‘Don’t understand,’ she says.

  ‘I don’t feel part of our family, I’m an outsider. Look at your photo album. Pictures of everyone, Mum, Dad … not one of me. It’s my fault, I’m the one who distances myself. I’m not blaming you, but you, Mum and Dad are so close. When you were young I was palmed off to Aunt Agnes, or stayed with Granny Norfolk, or some horrible babysitter looked after me. You needed their help, Mum and Dad had no choice, I know that, but I didn’t cope with it very well.’ My thoughts are scrambled. ‘Do you understand what I’m trying to say?’

  ‘Sort of. Difficult for Katie too.’

  ‘Yes, in a totally different way from what you had to go through. I feel so guilty for feeling like this, I don’t want to feel the way I do.’

  ‘That’s right. You jealous?’

  ‘Yes,’ I reply simply, realizing how perceptive she is. ‘I was really jealous of you for having all the attention. I have to get over it, though, I know it’s not your fault.’

  ‘You blame Mum?’ Bells asks.

>   ‘I guess I do. Mum’s always taken on the brunt of it. With Dad it’s different somehow, we’ve always been closer. Shall we make a pact?’

  ‘Yes, pact.’

  ‘That we make a fresh start?’

  ‘Friends.’ She holds out her hand, with her short little fingers and bitten nails.

  ‘Yes, friends,’ I tell her, clutching that tiny hand.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  It’s nearly six o’clock and I’m making price tags with black velvet ribbon. Eve has left, picked up by Hector, who was not at all what I’d expected: short and oily like a sardine.

  Eve bought a baby chandelier for the shop today, with shimmering cut-glass drops. She also found some ivory silk cushions trimmed with black lace to decorate the cream chaise longue in the corner of the shop. Very Moulin Rouge. We work well together because she has a real flair for design and enjoys making the shop look lavishly aesthetic. We have similar taste, which is fortunate.

  ‘Where’s Mark?’ Bells mentions again.

  ‘Since five minutes ago, I still don’t know,’ I reply, watching Bells pacing the shop floor, making fists with her hands. ‘Bored,’ she says again.

  ‘We’ll be going home soon, I promise. Draw me something,’ I suggest, handing her my notepad.

  ‘Mark married?’ she asks.

  ‘I don’t think so. Why?’

  ‘Girlfriend?’

  ‘No idea.’

  ‘Pets? He have a dog?’

  ‘Doubt it. You should have asked him.’

  I wonder if Bells misses ‘going out’ with men. Does it even occur to her? This is when I feel guilty about envying her. There is so much she cannot have which I take for granted. I wonder what she thinks about Sam and me. She probably isn’t envious when all we do is argue. She still says she doesn’t like him.

  ‘Mark nice man.’

  I can see she’s not going to let him slip from her mind. ‘Draw me a picture of him,’ I say, pleased that she grabs a pencil from the papier-mâché pot on my desk.

  I continue looping ribbon through the tags. ‘We going to see Mark again?’ she asks as she sits down on the wooden stair and begins to draw earnestly.

  ‘Maybe.’

  Mark scribbled down his telephone number just before he left. The piece of paper is still in my handbag. He told me he was around if I needed him as it was the school summer holiday. I could call him. We could go out. Sam doesn’t need to know. Mark is Bells’s friend after all.

  *

  I have thought a lot about Mark and our evening together. It has been a ray of light in the last few days. ‘I have a friend who has a brother,’ he told me, after the tears and after I had explained how foolish I felt for not confiding in Sam about Bells. ‘I had never met the brother until I went to their sister’s wedding. I was the very informal photographer,’ he added with a modest cough. ‘I was in the kitchen with the brother, whose name was Ben, and he seemed pretty normal to me, sitting there in his jacket and tie, until he asked his father if he could have a Scotch egg.’ Mark smiled. ‘I thought it was strange,’ he furrowed his eyebrows, ‘a man of thirty-something asking his father if he could have a Scotch egg, but then I thought nothing more of it until he turned to me, quite randomly, and said that their dog should be put down.’

  I laugh out loud, remembering. ‘What so funny?’ Bells asks as she walks over to my desk clutching the pad.

  ‘Something Mark told me.’

  ‘Mark nice man, isn’t he?’ She is doing that excited thing with her hands again, as if they’re dancing together.

  ‘He is a very nice man. But back to your portrait.’ And I’m surprised when she sits down obediently and carries on drawing.

  ‘I was amazed my friend had never told me much about him,’ Mark continued. ‘Baffling, really. I had known him for six years.’

  I smile, thinking about that word ‘baffling’.

  Then came the awful question that all of us ask though we wish we didn’t. ‘And what do you do?’ I was focusing on the large hole Mark had in the elbow of his navy jumper. It looked like an ancient Marks & Spencer one that needed either replacing or a good darning.

  ‘I’m a teacher.’

  ‘Oh yes, you said. What do you teach?’

  English and drama.’

  There is something romantic about being a drama teacher, I think now, tapping my red biro against the desk.

  ‘Really?’ I asked. Why do we say, ‘Really?’ Did I expect Mark to stick his tongue out and say, ‘No, only joking’? ‘What age?’ I continued.

  ‘Teenagers. I like a challenge.’

  With his tousled light brown hair which has no parting whatsoever, the small mole on the right side of his face, even the nerdy round glasses he wears, I reckon a lot of the girls would have a crush on Mark.

  ‘I enjoy the summer holidays too,’ Mark had said. ‘Gives me time to do my own stuff.’

  ‘Your own stuff?’

  ‘I’m trying to write a book,’ he confessed. ‘I find it difficult working from home, too many distractions like daytime television. “At nine-ten we can show you how to make yourself look like a Hollywood actor in less time than it takes to boil an egg,”’ he said, imitating Lorraine Kelly. ‘There’s Wimbledon too. If Henman’s playing I have to leave the house, my nerves can’t cope.’

  He asked me about my shop. I told him about my time at art college and working for a West End theatre, designing and making costumes, followed by working for a fashion designer for three years. She went bust eventually but taught me a lot about the business. Bells had come downstairs by then in her pyjamas, clutching her photograph album. He turned his attention to her as I made a salad. They talked about the tennis, Mark said he had the hots for Sue Barker. He asked her about football. I couldn’t help noticing the ease between them. Bells was laughing with him and at one point she stroked his arm affectionately.

  Mark looked at all her pictures slowly. ‘Who are they?’ he asked.

  ‘Mary Veronica, Ted, in Paris,’ Bells said proudly. I went over to have a look. Mary Veronica and Bells were standing outside a café with their thumbs up. Ted was in the middle with his arms crossed. ‘We climbed Eiffel Tower,’ she told us.

  ‘I would love to do that. Now, who is this? She’s very beautiful.’

  ‘My mum,’ Bells said. ‘That’s my dad. That’s Budge, he plays for my football team.’

  ‘Katie, how come there are no pictures of you?’ Mark asked, sounding surprised.

  *

  I clear my desk. It’s late and I want to go home. Today I popped out of the shop to post some letters and found myself hoping I might bump into Mark.

  Well, he knows where I am and where the shop is too. ‘Let’s go, Bells. What do you fancy doing tonight?’

  ‘Sainsbury’s? Cook tonight, organic night.’

  I pull a face. ‘Let’s grab a takeaway.’

  ‘Mark likes Sainsbury’s.’

  Good point. ‘What do you fancy cooking?’

  *

  Bells and I are sitting like plum puddings on the sofa, sharing a tub of toffee ice cream with a slice of chocolate biscuit cake and watching the old black-and-white film Titanic. Earlier Bells cooked us a wild mushroom and aubergine risotto. She showed me how to prepare the aubergines, slicing them and sprinkling them with salt, while telling me that we had to leave them for half an hour before cooking them.

  There was no sign of Mark at Sainsbury’s, just the same old man with his trolley of oranges, wishing everyone the ‘best of luck’. Bells tells me she has watched this movie at least one hundred times.

  ‘About to hit iceberg.’ She claps as she leans forward and laughs outrageously.

  ‘The wallies! Bells, it’s coming, it’s coming!’ I sit forward too.

  ‘Rewind,’ she says. I pick up the controls and rewind. I hear the front door shut and Sam coming upstairs. For a second I’m actually disappointed he’s back.

  ‘SMACK!’ Bells cries out. Sam stands at the door, shakes
his head and walks out. I follow him downstairs to the kitchen. He sits down at the table, which is covered with a baking tray, a greasy butter wrapper, tin of cocoa, digestive biscuits and a bag of sultanas.

  ‘Sorry,’ I say, quickly beginning to clear the mess. ‘We made a chocolate biscuit cake.’ I walk past him and put the dirty bowl, licked wooden spoon and tray in the sink.

  ‘Katie, I’m sorry. I’m behaving like an idiot.’

  I turn around and lean against the oven. ‘Yes, you are. We both are. I’m sorry too. I was scared. I feel responsible for her, but I shouldn’t have taken it out on you. Everything you said, me not telling you about her,’ I scratch my forehead, ‘you were right.’

  ‘Take a long hard look at yourself, Katie,’ he imitates himself.

  I sit down next to him and Sam slides his fingers in between mine. ‘We are OK, aren’t we?’ I ask.

  ‘I think so. ’Course we are. Come here.’

  ‘Katie!’ I hear Bells shouting.

  I pull away from him. ‘Coming?’

  ‘No,’ he says awkwardly. ‘I’ll clear up this mess.’

  ‘Sam, Bells won’t bite.’

  ‘I’ve seen Titanic.’

  ‘So have I. Bells has seen it a thousand times!’ I laugh, wanting him to change his mind. ‘We’ll clear up later, Bells loves washing up.’

  ‘Hot soapy water,’ she says as her hands plunge into the foamy basin, a look of extraordinary delight on her face. However much mess Bells creates, she always tidies up after herself, preferring not to use the dishwasher. She makes her own bed because that’s what they do at home. She cooks her own meals. And even though her room is full of posters and music and looks like a car boot sale, it’s an organized chaos. She knows exactly where everything is and gets cross if I move anything.

  ‘Go,’ he says, acting like a boy who doesn’t get the attention he deserves.

  All the tension between us returns, but I don’t want another argument. I leave him in the kitchen.

  ‘Katie,’ he calls after me.

  ‘About to hit iceberg, Katie,’ Bells tells me again. ‘Katie, watch.’

  I sit down with her. ‘The wallies! What do you call them, Bells?’