Helen is standing at the top of the stairs, shoulders heaving up and down. She turns to look at me, mouth wide open like a cartoon baby, fat tears rolling down her cheeks.
At the sight of her, I feel a tiny tweak of guilt. Her chin has puckered into a tight, pock-marked mound, and her hands clench and unclench by her sides.
‘Darling!’ our mother calls, rushing up the stairs but visibly relieved to see Helen is intact. ‘What’s the matter?’
She’s sobbing too much to make sense, but I know what she’s saying. ‘My plants. My plants. My plants.’
‘Come here, darling.’ Rebecca stretches out her arms, but I put my arm around my sister instead, and jig her shoulders up and down. A simple Rule for how to demonstrate your Innocence is to offer comfort to the injured party.
She’s still whining about her plants. If she hadn’t surrounded herself with so many precious things, she wouldn’t get upset like this when something goes wrong. She needs to learn the hard way. I am more experienced in these things than her.
Helen’s nose has become too snotty for my liking so I let go. She moves over to Rebecca and buries her head in our mother’s body. While they’re both preoccupied, I quickly put my head around her bedroom door to sniff the air and survey the wrecked vegetation. The smell of bleach lingers in the background, but it’s mingled with all the other scents. I don’t think the bleach smell is strong enough to declare itself to noses other than mine. Mine is the nose in the know.
‘It looks as if something killed her plants,’ I call to Rebecca from the doorway. ‘They’ve wilted really badly. Maybe the central heating wasn’t on high enough?’
‘Oh, shame!’ Rebecca says, looking at me over the top of Helen’s head.
Helen has sprouted upwards with surprising speed since the summer. Now she’s almost up to Rebecca’s chin. They look like two stems of the same plant, wound together around each other at the top of our stairs.
****
IV. November
Tues 1st November
Just before bed, I cut two slices of bread and lay them side by side. I spread a generous layer of soya margarine on both slices and, instead of seasoning, I sprinkle each one with a thin layer of the powder from my special envelope. I’m careful not to use too much because of its strong metallic taste. I try to include a strong flavour in the sandwiches to cover up the sharp sting of the powder. In some of the sandwiches, I put slices of cheddar and tomato and a thin skim of Branston Pickle. Today I went shopping after school with our housekeeping money, so there are other, more interesting things to choose from for my own sandwiches, including processed cheese and chocolate spread. Helen will bring her empty box back for its refill tomorrow.
****
Wed 2nd November
‘Are you allowed out on your own yet?’ I ask, as Katie rewinds the video tape. We’ve just watched The Way We Were from Mrs Nelson’s Barbara Streisand collection. Mr Phillips looks just like Robert Redford, but taller and more attractive because he hasn’t got any warts on his face.
She glances at me warily. ‘I’m not allowed over the other side of the creek without Mum or Dad.’
‘I’ve got something to show you. On this side of the creek.’
The stitches have been removed from her forehead and the scar smiles at me enthusiastically. ‘What is it?’
‘It’s a surprise I’ve been waiting to show you.’
‘Give me a clue.’
I can see that she’s consumed with curiosity.
‘Your clue is called Helen Osborne.’
‘Lizzie, would you give me a hand down here, please?’ Mrs Nelson calls up the stairs.
‘Can you come out tonight, after tea?’ I maintain my mysterious tone as I lift the cushions to one side, clamber off the comfy chair and kick the dog out of the way. ‘You have to wear black clothes, no bright colours.’
Katie opens the door the instant Mr Nelson’s newly-installed security floodlight flashes on. I’m still at the top of the path, sailing through the floodlit gravel in my mother’s black macintosh.
She dances around anxiously in the hall, full of apologies. Unfortunately, she explains, she can’t locate any black clothes because she’s not allowed to wear black. Her mum says black is the colour of Death. Her dad says teenage girls who wear black are stepping on the first rung of a slippery slope which ends up in a council house as a single parent in a broken home.
Katie’s brain catches up with her mouth immediately after she says ‘single parent,’ but not before she says ‘broken home.’ Her lips form an o-shape and reach out, sucking the air, trying to pull the words back in.
Out of natural politeness, I pretend not to notice and allow Katie to steer away from the snag.
Luckily, she gabbles, she likes to wear rich colours, so she doesn’t mind about the anti-black rule: she likes reds, plums, greens, cerises, whites, limes and oranges. She’s listing.
She has tried the best she can this evening with her orchard of garments. She’s wearing a fruity combination of purple and dark green, with fluffy chocolate legwarmers pulled up to her knees.
‘Can I still come with you for the surprise?’ she pleads.
I forgive her the white Nikes because our feet won’t show.
She tugs a navy blue woolly hat over her head, carefully pulling it forward to cover the scar, and tucks her hair in at the sides.
‘Take Trixy with you, girls,’ Mrs Nelson calls.
‘No dogs,’ I whisper.
‘No dogs,’ Katie repeats to Mrs Nelson.
I quickly fill the gaping hole. ‘We’re just going over the road to play in my room, so I’m afraid the dog can’t come.’
Katie’s face lights up. She’s never been in my bedroom.
‘Not really,’ I tell her.
Helen left number eleven a quarter of an hour ago, so by my reckoning we are currently in an optimum position to witness my sister’s antics with him.
Mrs Phillips is never home on Wednesday evenings. I don’t know where she goes. She leaves the baby and Samuel behind. Sometimes the baby wakes up and screams at the top of its voice. Then he leaves my sister in the shop and goes through to the house to deal with it.
‘Where are we going?’ Katie asks excitedly as we set off up the road. ‘Not the church! I’m not going to the graveyard in the dark!’
‘We’re not going up there. You’ve got to calm down. Be very quiet.’ I speak in my deadly serious voice.
‘We’re not going nicking stuff are we?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous! Promise you’ll be silent when we get there.’
This is the first time I’ve shown anybody my secret, and I’m already regretting my decision to invite Katie along. I’d hoped, by doing so, to tug her away from her mistaken friendship with my sister. I hope, afterwards, she will realise how much trust I’ve conferred on her, how generous I am to share this secret with her.
I decide to have a quiet word with her before we get to the shop.
We stop in a doorway half-way up the road. ‘I’m showing you this because you are potentially my best friend at some point in the future.’
‘Thank you.’ She paws my arm.
‘What you see tonight: it’s top secret. You’re not allowed to tell anyone else, or you’ll get in big trouble.’
Jumping up and down with excitement, she sticks three stumpy fingers in my face while suffocating her little finger with her thumb. This is the brownie-guide sign. My concerns increase.
‘I won’t tell. I promise.’
Katie is acting as if she’s about to leapfrog out of our village and into the first page of a Famous Five adventure story, with me in the lead and the dog left at home.
We stop in the empty drive alongside the village shop. I tell her to wait quietly for a minute while I edge towards the window.
Behind the slanting blinds, the inside of the shop looks like a jewellery box gleaming with gems. All the tins and packets shimmer in the light.
‘There
he is. Look!’
Katie creeps forward. ‘Who is it?’
Mr Phillips is moving about behind the counter.
‘What’s he doing?’ Katie whispers.
‘She’s there too. Look! They’re dancing.’ I can faintly make out the shape of my sister moving around on his side of the counter, but I can’t see exactly what she’s doing. All the layers of glass and the blinds inhibit my view.
‘What’s that Spanish dance called?’ Katie asks.
‘Flamingo,’ I reply.
Katie’s nose is pressed up against the shop window. ‘I think they’re doing Flamingo.’
Suddenly my sister surfaces. She runs through the hatch into the shop, laughing.
‘Quick, get back,’ I insist, and we both retreat into the drive. ‘Did you see her?’
‘Why’s she crying?’
‘She isn’t crying! She’s laughing.’
‘She is crying! Look! What’s she doing in the shop? Is that the secret?’
‘She comes here all the time,’ I explain. ‘To play with him. I’m the only one who knows about it.’
‘I hope he doesn’t try and teach me Flamingo.’ Her voice is adamant.
‘You’re not allowed to tell anyone, not even your mum and dad,’ I warn. ‘I’m waiting for the situation to develop. I’ll decide what to do next.’
We tiptoe forward again. Mr Phillips is moving into the shop, unwrapping something.
‘He’s giving her a present,’ Katie whispers. ‘No. It’s just a packet of hankies. She was crying. Did he hurt her?’
The unfurled paper tissue is so large it covers her entire hand. He wipes each hand thoroughly, pats her on the head, and sits down in the folding chair. She turns around in rapid circles on the spot. After a while, she walks slowly over to where he’s sitting. She doesn’t seem particularly enthusiastic, not like the other times I’ve seen them playing. He picks her up, puts her on his knee and wraps his arms around her middle, talking all the time. His mouth is huge like a goldfish when it comes up to eat flakes from the surface of the bowl.
A half-smile creeps across Helen’s face.
‘Look! See, I told you she wasn’t crying,’ I tell Katie.
****
Thurs 3rd November
‘At least we won’t get sand in our witches or sea in our sides!’ Rebecca hoots with laughter and unfurls the picnic rug, but I don’t think she’s at all funny. Not remotely. Her jokes are really pathetic.
‘It’s freezing out here.’
The wind tries to tear the rug out of her hands. ‘Quick! Put stones on the other side, Lizzie, before it blows away again.’
I have no problem finding stones because she’s brought us to a shingle beach. I group them together in the corners of the rug where they hunch like cold figures in pink, silver and grey.
Helen has already drifted down to the shoreline, where a minute sliver of anaemic sand glimmers hesitantly in the grey-white light. She leans on one of the tall wooden tide-breakers and examines the ground. Her bucket and spade look venomously yellow.
‘What a stupid idea for a birthday treat,’ I grumble, shifting around uncomfortably on the rug, trying to make the rocks underneath accommodate my shape.
A thin line of sea lurks on the horizon, almost as grey as the sky.
Rebecca has let us take the day off school for Helen’s birthday. Aside from us, the only figures on the shore are stray people walking their dogs.
The mudflats are dotted with fishermen digging for lugworms.
I decide to highlight an obvious fact to our mother, one which nobody has seen fit to mention until now. ‘People don’t go on picnics in November.’
‘Well, it’s Helen’s birthday and if this is what she wants to do, this is what we’ll do together.’ Rebecca takes our family-sized Thermos flask out of the hamper and waves it at me. ‘As a family. Have a cup of tea or something.’
On the shore, Helen chases a scruffy three-legged dog, trying to persuade it to drop its stick. She runs up to the owner with the dog at her heels and shouts, ‘what’s his name?’
‘Tripod.’
She laughs, and runs away calling the dog’s name, egging it on to follow her.
When she returns with the dog in tow, she shouts at the man, ‘Yes, but what was he called before Tripod? When he had four legs?’
‘Geraldine,’ the man answers.
She screeches with laughter. ‘Is he a girl, then?’
‘I hope she washes her hands before eating any sandwiches,’ I remark in a loud voice.
I muse for a while on the topic of sandwiches. To date, Helen has shown no visible signs of the effects of my powder in her packed lunches. I wonder if it isn’t potent enough because I used Rebecca’s old pills. I will use more powder from now on, maybe grind up some of our mother’s new betablockers.
‘Leave her alone. She’ll be fine.’
‘No wonder none of her friends wanted to come. It’s freezing! I don’t see why we need to come today seeing as we’re going out tomorrow night for fireworks. I’d rather be at school.’ I’m not going to sit quietly through my sister’s selfish behaviour. Somebody needs to point out a few home truths. ‘Why can’t she do something normal, like go to the cinema? Look at her! What does she think she’s doing?’
Helen has torn off her shoes and socks, and she’s moving out over the mudflats like a crab. Bent low, black curls dancing around her head in the wind, she carefully inserts her spade into the mud, tilts the yellow handle and, with surgical precision, lifts the contents into the bucket.
‘Do shut-up Lizzie. You’re ruining this for everybody.’
As Helen gets older I find it more and more difficult to believe we’re sisters. She becomes taller and skinnier, her hair grows curlier, and her absence of basic social skills becomes more pronounced, whereas I, by contrast, become more intelligent by the day, and my brown hair becomes straighter and sleeker.
I hate the cold. I stand up, rubbing the dents out of my legs. ‘I don’t see why I had to come out today.’
Rebecca tries to sip her tea, but the plastic beaker bounces around in the wind and she keeps getting mouthfuls of hair. ‘Try to be nice to Helen today. It’s a big deal reaching ten. It’s the age when you start asking significant questions. And you start remembering things properly, connecting them in sequences rather than trying to put together all those vague impressions and fragments of infancy. Just think of Maggie Tulliver in The Mill on the Floss, the way she changes.’ She sucks the rim of the cup and gazes into the distance. ‘For example, I bet you don’t remember that time when you were four, and you pushed Helen’s pram to the bottom of the garden and left her exposed in the sunshine. She was quite dehydrated by the time I found her.’
‘You’re always reminding me of that,’ I snap. ‘Of course I don’t remember, because it didn’t happen. You made it up. I remember everything else.’
‘Well, what about the way you used to follow your dad around all the time? You wouldn’t let him out of your sight. If he so much as went off to the loo, you’d howl inconsolably outside the door until he came out. Do you remember that? It made life very difficult for poor old me.’
‘Poor old you,’ I say sarcastically. ‘I wish you’d stop telling lies about me.’
I urgently need to get away from these unfair and incriminating reminders of a Lizzie who made decisions and embarked on plans of action, but who wasn’t actually me. Rebecca claims to remember a person with my name, but this person is out of my control. My mother has an unfair advantage. She can make up whatever stories she likes and, when I deny them she can tell me that I’m suffering from childhood amnesia.
I wander down to the shoreline before Rebecca can continue with her catalogue of false memories.
Helen’s shoes and socks lie abandoned on the sand beside a heap of cockle shells. I take off my trainers, position them side-by-side on the shore, and roll my trouser-legs up to the knees.
If you can join them, you can beat them
.
Cold mud oozes between my toes and the wind inflates my jacket into a balloon. I stamp on lugworm casts and head towards my sister.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Saving lugworms from those men.’
‘Well I’ve got something to tell you.’
‘What?’
My sister is so gullible. You can say anything to her and she’ll always believe it.
‘Guess what?’
‘I don’t know. What?’
‘Dad went away because of you.’
‘No he didn’t. Mummy says he didn’t want to be married any more.’
‘Well, that’s not true. She only says that to make you feel better. He went away because you did something really bad. You probably don’t remember it any more because children your age forget things really quickly, especially the really bad things.’
‘But mummy said it was because of her, not me.’ She points at the windswept figure delving around in the picnic hamper on the shore, then she looks at me and her eyes widen. ‘What did I do?’
I try to think of the worst thing a little girl could do to her father. ‘You tried to stab him with the carving knife. He nearly died.’ I emphasise the last word, filling it with indignation and moral censure.
‘No I didn’t! I’m going to ask.’ Helen sets off for the shore, feet skidding in all directions, bucket slopping over.
I hurry to catch up. ‘It’s a secret. Promise not to tell her I told you?’
She stays silent.
‘If you tell her, you’ll be sent to prison.’
We get back to the rug.
‘Why did daddy go away?’ Helen asks our mother.
‘What? Is that what you two have been talking about?’
‘Was it my fault?’
‘No! Whatever gave you that idea?’ Rebecca glowers at me with a talk-to-you-later expression.
‘Come on! Let’s play the pebble game!’ I shout, feeling a bit guilty now.
I throw a grey-blue rock across the shingle as hard as I can. Helen runs off to retrieve it, nearly bumping into a couple walking their dog. She stands with them for a minute, talking and stroking the animal. The couple wave at us as they walk past.
The Third Person Page 10
