The day I left, Dad and I stood quietly on the platform waiting for my train to arrive, both locked in our own thoughts. I was thinking about being a child again, climbing on to the train with my shiny red suitcase to see Aunt Agnes, and Dad waving goodbye as the train started to move.
‘I don’t want to, I’m not going,’ I said as the train approached.
Dad smiled as he brushed a strand of hair away from my eyes and tucked it behind my ear, like he used to do when I was young. ‘You have to go.’ He opened the door and helped me in with my luggage. ‘Mum and I will be fine on our own.’
Bells had left the day before. She was happy to go back. She missed college, her friends, her football and her normal routine. I hadn’t missed anything, and that scared me. ‘Who’s going to cook for you, Dad?’ I called out as the train slowly started pulling away.
He waved his hand at me. ‘I’ll manage without Bells, don’t worry.’
I laughed. ‘No more secrets, ever!’ I shouted out of the window. ‘We tell each other everything, good and bad. Great or bloody awful!’ Strange the way our family does this. Dad and I had what seemed like an eternity of time waiting on the platform together, and now that I was actually going, the words were tumbling out.
‘Everything,’ he agreed.
‘Promise?’
‘I promise.’
We blew kisses. Dad’s figure quickly faded into the distance. He was the only person left standing on the platform, still waving, until he was out of sight.
I open one of the photographs again. Emma is sitting down, Jonnie behind her with his arms wrapped around her shoulders. She’s wearing a red dress that contrasts with her cropped dark brown hair and brown eyes. He’s wearing a pale blue shirt to go with his blue eyes. It’s all very colour-coordinated and grown up. The doorbell finally rings and I put the photograph back on the mantelpiece.
*
Emma hands me a large glass of wine. Perfect. Jonnie leads me into the sitting-room. ‘You must meet my parents,’ he says. They are standing expectantly by the fireplace. ‘Mum, Dad, meet Katie.’
‘Call me Will.’ He is a big beefy man so it’s forgiven that I nearly laugh out loud when I hear his soprano voice.
‘Call me Hermione.’ Jonnie’s mother steps forward to shake my hand. She must come up to about my waist. She looks like a little mouse and is wearing these peculiar multicoloured pointed shoes that curl up at the toes like the end of a gondola.
‘What do you do, Katie?’ he enquires, wide-eyed and smiling. I am still trying to keep a straight face. Emma did tell me that Hermione was a pain, but why didn’t she warn me about that voice? She must have known how I’d react.
‘I own a clothes shop,’ I tell him.
‘Oh, how interesting,’ he squeaks, touching his navy V-neck jumper with both hands.
Think of a sad story, sad story, I’m telling myself as I look at them both goggle-eyed.
‘What’s it called?’ Hermione chirps enthusiastically. ‘I know someone who works in fashion. She gets to travel abroad to Paris. I think she works for Gucci or Givenchy, something like that.’
‘Well,’ I cough, ‘it’s called FIB.’
‘Fib?’
‘It stands for Female In Black.’
‘Oh,’ she says, her voice heavy with disappointment. ‘I think black is so dreary, all you young things wear it,’ she comments, scanning my outfit. I am wearing a soft black rounded-neck jumper with sequins edging the cuffs. I get distracted as Jonnie hands me a plate of mixed nuts, and winks at me.
‘So, you’re living with Jonnie and Emma, I gather?’ Hermione has lost all interest in my career, then.
‘Yes, that’s right,’ I say, and then add, ‘For the moment, that is,’ when I can see from her face that she is faintly dismayed. ‘Until I find my own place.’
‘You’re not married then, Katie?’
‘No,’ I say, and feel compelled to add, ‘Not yet.’
‘Oh, what a shame,’ peeps Will, his big moon face looking downcast.
‘No, not a shame. I’m only twenty-nine!’
Hermione’s mouth shrivels like a prune. ‘But you young people wait for so long. I married Will when I was twenty. I had three children by the time I was your age. You’re all the same. I mean, look at Jonnie, he took his time,’ she grumbles.
I am tempted to say she probably had to marry her husband quickly before he changed his mind and did a runner.
‘What do your parents do?’ she continues.
‘Well, my father works at Sotheby’s,’ I tell them.
Hermione graciously acknowledges this, saying it must be a very interesting job. I can almost see her conferring a tick of approval. ‘How about your mother?’
I clear my throat. ‘My mother’s recently had a terrible time, she had a brain tumour.’
‘Oh I am sorry. How awful for you all.’
‘It was awful, terrible … but she’s OK now. She got through it, she’s doing well,’ I tell Hermione proudly. ‘It will take a good six months to a year before she gets back to normal totally, but she’s very lucky. We all are.’
As I say it, I can hardly believe it’s true. Mum pulled through. I can see her now, sitting at the kitchen table, her brightly patterned red and gold silk scarf coiled around her head, reading out to Dad how to cook a fish pie for their supper.
‘Isn’t she brave,’ Hermione comments.
‘Yes, she is. She took a risk having the operation, but to be honest, she had no choice.’
‘Flake the fish, darling,’ I can hear her repeat because Dad is chopping it instead. He can only really cook scrambled eggs.
‘Well done her,’ Will chirps.
‘Do you have any brothers or sisters?’ Will’s mother enquires hopefully.
I take one more glug of wine to brace myself for the question that I know is coming next.
‘A sister.’
‘Is she married?’
‘No.’
‘Stop being so nosy!’ Jonnie calls from the kitchen. ‘She thinks everyone over twenty-one should be married. Times have changed, Mum!’
‘Oh. What does she do?’
Of course she was going to ask that. Asking people what they do is a kind of nervous tic with the middle classes. ‘Well, Bells is a slightly unusual case. Er … she was born …’
‘Bells? Is that what she’s called?’
‘Sorry. Bells – Isabel. We’ve always called her Bells.’
‘Oh I see. Why is she unusual?’
‘She lives in a kind of community, it sounds like a farm but it’s not,’ I add.
‘She works on a farm?’ Hermione creases her forehead in confusion. ‘Is she a volunteer?’
‘No,’ I say, twisting the silver ring on my finger. ‘She lives there, it’s her home.’
‘Right,’ says Jonnie’s mother, looking even more puzzled.
‘It’s a special home for …’ I pause, thinking of the correct way to word it, ‘people with disabilities.’
If Hermione was in one of those hamster wheels that roll around the floor, she’d be spinning out of control by now. ‘You mean, she’s retarded?’
‘No,’ I say stiffly. ‘No, she’s not. She is Bells. Our Bells.’
‘Oh dear, oh dear. What a shame,’ Will pipes up.
‘Poor, poor thing.’
‘She is not a poor thing,’ I voice defiantly. ‘She’s wonderful. She’s a terrific cook, loves her music and football. There’s nothing she doesn’t know about the Beatles or Stevie Wonder. She has this magical sense of humour, too. Bells is her own person, and if you told her she was a poor thing she would hit you hard in the balls.’ I want to take back the last bit but it’s too late. Jonnie roars with laughter; I hear Emma choke and then let out a snort. I look at Will and Hermione but their expressions are still pitying. They aren’t even listening.
AND I HAVE CANCER OF THE BOWEL, I want to shout, pointing to my cigarettes regretfully, but bite down on my lip hard. When I start to env
isage Bells hitting Will hard in the balls, I have to try hard not to laugh.
Until other guests arrive, I change the subject by talking about the photographer Emma found for the wedding. Has Hermione seen the picture of the chocolate cake she has chosen which will be garnished with white flowers? What is the mother-of-the-groom going to wear? I am going to design and make Emma’s veil. Hermione tells me she loves winter weddings because that’s when she got married. All fun, pretty things to talk about.
*
‘What’s a pretty girl like you doing on her own tonight?’ my taxi-driver asks as he turns on the engine. Emma bundled me into the cab because she’s staying with Jonnie and his parents tonight. ‘Do you have a boyfriend?’
This cab-driver is very forward, isn’t he? ‘I have one, thanks,’ I hiccup, deciding it’s much more fun to lie. ‘I’m afraid I can’t talk too much about it, though,’ I say, crouching forward into the space between his seat and the front passenger one. ‘A bit complicated. Wouldn’t want it making headline news. We have to leave separately, too risky otherwise with the paparazzi.’ I sink back into the padded leather seat and hiccup once more. ‘Oops, sorry ’bout that.’
‘I don’t believe you, man,’ he laughs. ‘Should I be getting your autograph?’
‘OK,’ I concede. ‘I’m on my own. I’ve just split up.’
‘I knew it,’ he exclaims. ‘I can sense things. Oh, that’s sad. Too bad. I missed my wife when we split, you know what I mean?’
‘I’m a bad picker of men. What’s your name?’
‘Fourque.’
‘For what?’
‘Fourque,’ he says and proceeds to spell it out. ‘F for Freddie, O for orange, U for umbrella …’
‘Well, Fourque, I pick men who are no good in the end. My second-to-last boyfriend was a commitment freak, and my last one was shallow.’
‘You pick the vermin?’
‘What?’
‘Vermin. That’s what I call all those people who aren’t any good. There are a lot of them out there, you know what I mean? You have to be careful.’
‘Vermin! I like that. I have this picture of ratlike people scurrying around with red flashing lights to show they are hazardous.’
‘Yeah, rodents, man,’ he laughs with me.
‘Rodents!’ I shout out of the window, feeling the fresh cold air blast my face.
‘Thing is, I wish they did have red flashing lights. You see these well-dressed nice-looking people around, but half of them are probably vermin too. I wish you could tell them apart.’
‘What about you now?’ I ask, sitting forward again.
‘What about me? Well, I want to make it in the music world. I don’t want to do this for the rest of my life,’ he says, pointing to the steering wheel. ‘I have an interview next week. It’s like my chance to do something I’ve always wanted to do. You have to take it, don’t you? You know what I mean?’
‘I know exactly what you mean,’ I say with certainty. ‘Life is way too short to waste it. Whoah, slow down, stop here.’ I want to buy another bottle of wine from the off-licence.
I clamber out and pay him through the front passenger window. He smiles at me and his eyes light up like fairy lights. ‘Will you pray for me to get the job?’ he asks. ‘And I’ll pray for you to find the right man.’ I find myself nodding because I like him. ‘Stay away from the vermin,’ he adds.
*
I head into the off-licence and stare at the various bottles of wine in front of me. In the end I take any old one and totter to the till. ‘Thank you,’ I say, clutching the carrier bag. ‘Have a fine day!’
‘Katie?’ I hear.
I stop and turn round. I know that voice. I tilt my head at him. He’s wearing a cord jacket and holding a bottle of water and a large packet of barbecue-flavour crisps.
‘Mark.’ I smile, unable to conceal my delight at seeing him.
‘What are you doing here?’ he asks.
‘I live here.’ I explain I am staying with Emma temporarily.
‘That’s great. How are you? And how’s your mother?’
‘She’s not here.’ Why did I say that?
Mark looks at me strangely. ‘I have to pay for this, hang on a sec. Don’t go anywhere.’ He delves into his pocket to find some notes and loose change.
I tell him I’ll wait outside and do a quick drunken skip on the pavement. This is turning out to be a much better evening than I thought. Hallelujah!
We walk home, me cursing that we’ll be there in thirty seconds. Why can’t we live at least a mile away? ‘When did you get back?’ he asks.
‘Five days ago. I would have called but I’ve had so much to do in the shop, a lot of catching up, you know what it’s like. I’m sorry, I should have …’
‘Don’t worry, I understand. Well, this is me,’ he says, standing outside a black door with two steps leading up to it. ‘But I’ll walk you home.’
I don’t budge an inch. I can’t let him go. I like him too much. I’d wanted to call him but lost my nerve without Bells as an excuse. I need to pluck up the courage now. What have I got to lose any more? ‘Can I come in? Let’s crack open this bottle of wine.’ I stride on ahead, up the steps.
He grabs an arm to steady me. ‘Don’t you think you’ve had enough?’ he asks, amusement in his tone.
I frown at him disapprovingly.
He gives in.
Mark’s flat is small. His bike leans against the corridor wall. We go into the sitting-room and I collapse into a soft sofa.
‘I’m going to put the kettle on,’ he tells me as he walks out of the room. ‘Do you want a coffee?’
‘What do you do?’ I start talking to myself. ‘What do you dooooo?’ I can hear Mark laughing in the kitchen. Five minutes later he comes back with two mugs. I peer into my coffee. ‘It’s Saturday night, Mark. I’ve been terrorized all evening by Jonnie’s parents. Believe me, I need a proper drink.’ I kick a wine glass on the floor at my feet. ‘Oops! What are all these wine glasses doing?’
‘Doing?’ Mark grins. ‘They’re having a party.’ He takes his jacket off.
There’s an open bottle of white wine on the coffee table in front of me. I pour some into the nearest glass, spilling a little over the edge. Mark picks up the other glass that is precariously close to being kicked over. I can smell his aftershave. He’s wearing a soft white shirt. All I want is to nuzzle into his shoulder and have a proper man hug. ‘This place is a bit of a tip, isn’t it? Did you have a party tonight?’
‘I had a few friends over.’
‘You had a few friends over,’ I repeat, followed by a large gulp of wine. ‘You know, Mark, it really is dandy to see you.’
‘Dandy?’ He laughs. ‘I like that word.’
‘You English teacher, you. D’you think it’s fate, Mark, the way we bump into one another? There I am, at the off-licence, and – poof! We bump into one another, just like that. Or you living so close to Emma and me moving here, right next door to you. It’s meant to be. Has to be.’ Mark raises one eyebrow.
‘I’ve always wanted to do that!’ I peer closely at him, my mouth hanging open. ‘How’d you do that? Can you roll your Rs …’ I flop back against the sofa like a rag-doll.
He rolls his Rs and then abruptly stops. ‘This is a pretty strange evening.’
‘D’you know, I think it might be destiny, Mark. D’you believe in destiny?’ He looks unsure. I lift myself up off the sofa to walk over to his music machine and look through his CDs. ‘My Fair Lady? Oh my God, you’re gay. Haah!’ I sigh deeply. ‘It makes sense.’
Mark looks bewildered now. ‘I’m not gay, it’s a school CD. We’re putting on a production this year.’
‘What’s all this paper?’
Mark stands up abruptly and takes it from me, shuffling it back into order. ‘It’s my book.’
‘Oh. Shall we dance?’ I twist around and Mark catches me, releases the glass of wine from my hand and holds me still. He could let go of me now, I think
. He’s going to kiss me. ‘Look, I think you need your bed,’ he says finally. ‘Do you want me to take you home?’
‘Do you want me to go home?’ I ask coyly, trying to be seductive. ‘You know, you’re very attractive, Mark. You’re such a nice and lovely man. There’s something about you.’ Is he laughing at me? ‘What! I mean it, Mark. Don’t look so worried, come here.’ I close my eyes for a second, in anticipation of a kiss.
‘Katie.’ I feel a hand shaking my arm. ‘Oh, shit, Katie. Wake up, Katie, please. Wake up.’
The words are echoing around me but I ignore them as I fall into a deep blackness.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
I wake up the following morning on a sofa with a rug over me. I attempt to move. My head! I hold it heavily in my hands. I groan. My mouth feels like a sewer. I summon all my strength to sit up, pulling the rug with me. Where am I? There’s a glass of wine on the table in front of me and the smell of it makes me feel sick. I’m still wearing my clothes from last night. My neck creaks when it moves. It’s too painful sitting upright. This is a bad dream. My head hits the pillow again. The last thing I remember vaguely was drinking stewed coffee. I shut my eyes and go back to sleep.
*
I am woken up abruptly by cramp in my arm. Quickly, I fling off the hairy tartan rug and stand up, shaking my arm about. The wine glasses have gone. I look around me once more, trying to piece together the events of last night. Papers and books overflow from a desk and a tall silver lamp with long spidery legs stands to one side of a computer. There’s a white-painted shelf holding even more books and a small television in the corner of the room. Sam would have a breakdown if his place looked like this. I pick up a glass of water from the floor and drink it steadily. Next to the glass is a packet of white pills. There’s a scrap of paper on the floor with a torn-off ring-binder edge.
‘Gone for a run, back soon, Mark. PS. These are for the sore head.’
Mark. I saw Mark last night! Of course I did. Where did I think I was? I start pacing the floor, knocking over a white plastic bowl. This is embarrassing. Did he think I was so drunk I was going to be sick in this during the night? Obviously he did.
Letters From My Sister Page 18
