Now they keep tittering as they try to put on exactly the same colours as each other, in exactly the same places.
Katie Nelson needs to grow up a bit if she wants to be my friend. When she spends time with my sister, she regresses to an earlier stage of human evolution.
Every time I look up, Helen has moved a fraction of an inch closer to Katie Nelson.
‘Aren’t you going to use some different colours?’ Katie asks me. ‘This one’s really nice.’ She pushes a dull green eye-shadow in my direction.
‘Not if it’s the same colour you’ve been trying to put on.’ I don’t see why I should try to humour Katie Nelson any more today.
‘These ones are lovely. Try these.’ Three pink shadows shoot across the table. Using my thumb and forefinger, I remove each one from my neat row of metallic colours.
‘Pink is nice on this bit, look.’ Katie points her brush at a section of my sister’s eyelid.
Mrs Nelson hums and sprays outside. Slowly, the scent of Chanel No.5 is displaced by the smell of furniture polish.
The dog scratches and licks itself underneath Katie’s chair.
I ask Katie to pass the gold lipstick. She slides it over to my side, and I use it to write his initials in my secret code on the back of my hand, on top of the eye-shadow colours. I reverse the first P and connect its spine with the second P to look like the wings on a dragonfly. I paint the wings with swirling blue and silver patterns.
‘I wish I had a little sister,’ Katie bursts out as she dabs Helen’s eyelids with a brush.
My sister writhes on her chair with pleasure. Her chin tilts upwards. I can see the bones in her jaw.
Katie has no idea how difficult life is for the older sister. You have to get used to being followed around all day by an Unwanted Person who demands to know exactly what you’re doing and tries to copy everything you do. You are forced to play games with somebody you don’t like. You have to share all your possessions, including toys, clothes, parents, crisps and sweets. Nothing you own is Private Property. All of your space is invaded, including your baths. Even your air is disturbed. If you don’t answer her questions the first time around, she repeats them twenty times at the top of her voice. Worst of all, when you grow out of your favourite dress, you have to watch her prancing about in it, showing off how well it fits, showing you how much you’ve changed.
‘I’ll swap with you any day.’ I say passionately. ‘I wish I was an only child. I’d love to live here with your mum.’
Katie pauses, and looks over at me. ‘There’s nothing to do here except watch telly in my room.’ Suddenly she drops her voice to a whisper. ‘And my mum’s scary sometimes.’
Mrs Nelson bustles through, holding a canister of Mr Muscle in her pink rubber gloves. ‘How are you getting on, girls? Time for some more nibbles? Why have you taken off your pretty face, Lizzie?’
I can’t believe that Katie is capable of telling such terrible lies about her mum. ‘We’re fine thank you, Mrs Nelson,’ I reply, beaming at her.
‘Aren’t you going to try some of these nice colours?’ She flicks through the metallic eye-shadows in my line.
‘Maybe in a minute.’
Mrs Nelson wanders out of the room and bumps her shoulder on the doorframe.
Katie has an idea. ‘Let’s pretend we’re sisters! We can be three sisters and go out on an adventure. I’ll be the middle one.’
Helen nods in excitement. She’s moved so close to Katie, now, that she’s almost attached to her side. ‘I’ll be youngest. You can look after me, Katie.’
I need to get certain matters straight with Katie Nelson. We don’t share friends in our family. ‘You’ve got to choose.’
‘Why can’t we share?’ She sounds genuinely perplexed.
I give her a legal look. ‘It’s one of the rules.’
‘You can’t make me choose.’ Katie is distressed. ‘That’s not fair! I like both of you the same.’
‘I’ll be off then.’ I stand up and push the chair neatly under the table.
‘Stay here! Let’s keep playing.’
‘I don’t have time to play with you two little kids.’ I close the door behind me.
As I walk down the road, I feel a little bit guilty about spoiling Katie’s morning, but I know that my hard line will pay dividends in the long term.
Rebecca stands in the hall, surrounded by bags. ‘Your eyebrows! Where’ve they gone?’
‘We’ve been experimenting with Mrs Nelson’s makeup.’
‘That’s ridiculous! You’re just children! Did she pluck your eyebrows?’ Her tone of voice conjures up a terrible vision of Rebecca storming up the road to have it out with Mrs Nelson.
‘We did it to ourselves. I did my own eyebrows.’
‘And Helen?’
‘She didn’t do anything to hers.’ I lock my fingers together behind my back to hide my bleeding cuticles.
‘Don’t do these things to yourself. Don’t mutilate your body! You’re lovely as you are!’
Just in case Rebecca tries to give me a hug, I pick up some bags and hurry into the kitchen.
****
Mon 17th October
When I realised that Those Three Girls were coming my way again today, I ran up to the prefects guarding the doors, told them I desperately needed to go to the toilet, dashed up the stairs, and hid for the entire lunch hour in amongst the sixth formers’ donkey jackets and duffel coats on the third floor.
I didn’t dare move.
I didn’t even try to discover the contents of people’s pockets.
I remained completely still, barely breathing, buried alive.
I heard teachers walk past towards the staffroom, but nobody saw me.
My lunch hour smelt of hairspray, chip fat, stale cigarettes, sweet perfume, and an array of other aromas from people’s homes which the fabric had absorbed.
I might not be able to hide there again. I need to make a Plan.
****
Tues 18th October
Rebecca’s giving a public lecture on 7th November. For ages she’s been muttering, waving scraps of paper around covered with scrawled notes, even stopping the car by the side of the road to scribble ideas on the backs of shopping lists, hankies and receipts.
She went to the doctor today.
‘Beta blockers,’ she says, unscrewing the lid of a brown bottle and extracting a pill as we sit down to dinner. ‘To stop me trembling. So people can’t see I’m nervous.’
I’ve made oven pizza for us all, natural cheese and tomato flavour.
‘I hope the audience will grasp the importance of my research. Then perhaps they’ll start to talk seriously about offering me a permanent post in the department.’
We only heard the typewriter for the first time last night. Maybe her fingers were trembling too much to type. She must have been writing her lecture by hand before that.
When she saw the posy of paper flowers Helen put on her desk this evening as a good luck present, she reminded us both not to go into the study because she doesn’t want any of her books or papers to be disturbed.
As we eat, Helen says something sensible for once. ‘Why don’t you get a proper job? Then we can afford to buy nice things for the house. You can have fun in the evenings and you don’t have to get nervous ever again.’
‘I’m not much good at anything else, I’m afraid.’ Rebecca replies apologetically, swilling a tablet down with a gulp of water.
My sister persists. ‘But can’t you be a teacher in a school? They get really long holidays.’
‘Then I’d never finish writing my monograph.’
I raise my eyes to the ceiling. In the time it’s taken our mother to write her monograph so far, both Helen and I have achieved the following, in chronological order:
1. Being born.
2. Learning to crawl.
3. Learning to walk.
4. Learning to talk.
5. Learning to read.
6. Learning to write.
<
br /> Meanwhile, our mother has produced sheet after sheet of crossed-out notes.
****
Fri 21st October
I avoid Katie Nelson when she plays and laughs with my sister instead of spending time with me because the expression on her face makes me want to climb inside her skin and squeeze each internal organ until it pops in my fists.
Mr Nelson gives her whatever she wants from his shop in town. ‘Nelson’s Eye’ is an emporium packed with wallpapers, paints, pictures and ornaments. Rebecca always snorts with laughter and says the stuff is kitsch. She wonders which eye is used when Mr Nelson chooses his stock. She obviously hasn’t seen the beautiful porcelain ballerina who appeared in the window on Wednesday, pirouetting, pale hands clasped above her head, fragile and elegant, fingers poised, a far-off expression on her miniature face.
I think Mrs Nelson has told Katie to be nice to me, because tonight she keeps inviting me into her bedroom to listen to her new singles and to try on clothes and make-up along with my sister.
I refuse. I sit downstairs, playing with my empty glass. I feel quite relaxed now.
I suck on the skin of my olive.
Rebecca’s new arrangement with Mrs Nelson has deprived me of my source of income, but I like it here at number sixteen. Mrs Nelson gives me preferential treatment. She’s always willing to chat to me, and she listens to what I say. Instead of going to number eleven after school, we come here every evening for two hours instead.
The terrier rushes in from the garden and tries to lick my ankles and toes. Its moist pink tongue lolls through its teeth and its eyes bulge up in an effort to look directly at my face. It simpers at my feet, half-rolling over on the carpet, front paws hooked in begging position. I hate the way it always acts as if it likes me so much. It smells sweet, like icing sugar mixed with talcum powder. Making sure nobody is looking, I kick it in the ribs. Just one sharp kick. After that, it leaves me alone.
I sit quietly with my books spread out on the dining room table and the television turned low in the background.
Mrs Nelson pops through, holding another glass full of clear liquid. An olive bobs around happily in the drink. As she sips, she peers over my shoulder at my exercise book. ‘English, is it?’
I nod. A tight tyre moves gently under Mrs Nelson’s jumper when she leans forward. She smiles encouragingly, and the ice tinkles in her glass.
I focus on my exercise book and try to ignore her warm breath in my ear.
‘Well, I’ll let you get on, pet.’ She wanders off again in the direction of the kitchen.
I’m writing a story about a tramp stranded outside a frost-covered window gazing in at children eating Christmas dinner. I’ve just got to the bit where he turns away from the window in mournful lonely solitude and sits down on the front step. The tramp will die on the doorstep during the night, and the children will find him in the morning when they come out to build a snowman. My tramps always wear fingerless knitted gloves. They stand alone, looking through windows at happy family scenes.
At six o’clock, our mother phones to summon us back to number eleven for tea.
****
Sun 23rd October
‘We’ve only got a black-and-white telly,’ my sister informs the entire Nelson household.
The dog looks at her sympathetically.
We are gathered in a semi-circle around the smoked-glass cabinet housing Katie’s new stereo. In the glass, our reflections look as if they have tropical suntans.
Downstairs, the Nelsons have the biggest television set I’ve ever seen, and a new VHS video player. Up here in Katie’s room, the telly is smaller, but it’s got a remote control so she doesn’t have to get up to change channels.
‘How terrible!’ says Mrs Nelson. She examines a manicured hand. After a pause, she adds thoughtfully, ‘but maybe it’s better to have black-and-white. You don’t see all the blood when that Attenborough man makes you watch lions killing little bambis in Africa.’ She shudders. ‘Chewing off their legs while they’re still alive.’
‘Red in tooth and claw,’ Mr Nelson says.
Instead of shutting her trap, Helen goes on to itemise all the empty sockets and blank spaces throughout the length and breadth of number eleven.
‘We haven’t got a deep freeze either, or a video, or a proper shower,’ she says, counting off each absence on a finger. ‘We haven’t got a washing-up machine. Or duvets. We still have blankets and sheets. Our fridge is from when they got married.’
I don’t mention how I found a bluebottle flying around inside the fridge during the summer holidays. I stunned it with my flip-flop and left it to die in the vegetable box.
Helen is cunning and manipulative. She saves the most important parental violation until last. ‘The only record player in the house is the one in her study. And we’re not allowed to go in there.’
Watching Helen drop hints for Katie’s old record player makes my stomach turn over in shame. She’s such a scrounger! I don’t know where to look. She’s airing all our dirty washing-up in public. She has presented the Nelsons with a picture of their own house painted in the negative. In a flash, Mrs Nelson wraps Helen’s arms around Katie’s old record-player. Knees buckling under the weight, she disappears through the door before they can change their minds.
I don’t offer to help her carry it down the road. I had my eye on that record player myself.
****
Mon 24th October
Every time Rebecca opens the door to wander into the kitchen for another mug of tea, The Magic Flute escapes from the study, filling all the spaces of number eleven with merriment. She’s been coming and going from the study all evening, whistling along to the music.
On my pillow, dozens of copies of My Guy, borrowed from Katie Nelson, lie open at the problem pages. I can’t follow my sister tonight. I’m in Big Trouble at school, and I need to stay in my bedroom to work out a Plan. I’ve scoured the magazines to see if anybody else has ever asked for help with a similar topic, but all of the letters ask about how to get boyfriends or the best ways to lose weight.
I’ve known for ages that something was brewing.
Today they escalated their campaign. At lunch-break they followed me, walking so close to my heels that I kept tripping over. I couldn’t turn around without being nose-to-nose with them. As they hounded me, they listed all the dirty things I’d been doing with my boyfriend. When I told them I haven’t got a boyfriend, they screamed with laughter and called me a lesbian. After that, their descriptions got a lot worse.
As a last resort before going to bed, I decide to raise my concerns with Rebecca. I’ve never asked for my mother’s advice before, and I’ve got no idea how she’ll respond to my problem.
There’s a rustling noise inside the study.
‘Come in!’ Rebecca calls.
She peers at me. I feel awkward standing in front of her, trying to describe the behaviour of Those Three Girls. I tell Rebecca how I kept saying ‘leave me alone,’ but it was impossible to ignore them because they wouldn’t stop shouting obscene things in my ears. I explain that I know for a fact Those Three Girls mean to cause more trouble tomorrow. Whenever I see them, a skewer of fear enters my throat and twists through my body.
Rebecca’s eyes wander back to the papers on her desk. She fidgets with a Magic Marker. ‘But what exactly did they say to you?’
‘They keep saying really dirty things.’ I can’t possibly repeat what they said. It’s too shocking.
‘Bullies are cowards deep down,’ Rebecca observes. ‘Ignore them. They’ll soon get bored with you and move on to somebody else. You have to rise above it. I can see you’re worried, darling, but I’m sure you’ll have forgotten about it by the end of term. Let’s reassess in a couple of weeks, shall we?’
I give her a withering look. Rebecca makes it sound as if the situation is my fault, as if I’ve done something to encourage them.
‘You should think of a smart put-down remark to embarrass them in front of e
ach other,’ she suggests brightly, then adds, ‘you know, sometimes the bullies have been bullied at home. What do you know about their parents? You never know what goes on behind closed doors…’
As I leave the room, Rebecca tells me to remember that sticks and stones will break my bones, but words will never hurt me.
But I know she’s wrong. Words can hurt you.
****
Thurs 27th October
Mrs Nelson has lovely pink lips and permed yellow hair. She wears a chunky gold chain around her neck. As she wipes the kitchen units using pine-scented fluid, she tells me that Mr Nelson got the necklace from a special offer in the Radio Times last Valentine’s Day for just twenty-five pounds.
The Nelson’s house is so carefully insulated with double glazing, and so full of its own lovely internal scents, that you can’t smell anything from the bone factory at all, even on the smelliest of bone days.
At five o’clock Mrs Nelson pours a drink: tonight she makes a Vodka Martini, but on other nights she makes brightly-coloured cocktails, or pours a Gordon’s topped up with a dash of Schweppes.
Mr Nelson spends most evenings in the garage listening to Radio Two and mending his Ford Capri. Mrs Nelson says he doesn’t like children very much, or dogs, or noise. I know precisely how the poor man feels. Even though he never speaks directly to me, I think we share a quiet electrical connection.
‘Chin-chin,’ Mrs Nelson says, raising the glass to her lips. The ice-cubes chime out like the rigging on the creek.
She always smiles at me. The Nelsons are so rich they buy new dinner plates all the time. I never know if the plates our snacks arrive on today will be the same as the plates we had yesterday.
The Third Person Page 8
