****
Sat 19th November
‘Come on, eat your dinner! I made these nut cutlets specially for you.’
I look up in surprise. Our mother rarely uses this tone of voice, impatient and firm. While I cooked proper sausages tonight, she prepared a stupid vegetarian dish for my sister.
‘I spoke to the nurse at work about you,’ Rebecca continues, accusingly, ‘and d’you know what she said?’
‘I don’t care what she said.’
‘She said “M-E-A-T”.’
‘Me At?’ enquires Helen.
I laugh at my sister’s moderately funny comment.
Rebecca tries to change her tone and sound affable, but she does it with all her usual lack of talent. With a false laugh, she says, ‘Yes, me at the end of my tether! So you’d better eat your dinner now, Helen, or I’ll be forced to feed you steak and kidney pies until you put on a bit of me at!’
Helen’s expression is scathing but I can’t see her eyes very well, because her lids are weighed down with black eye-liner and mascara that’s congealed into clumps.
I decide to maintain the jovial tone and insert some real humour, just to annoy my sister and to show Rebecca an example of a successful joke. I unfurl the comment I’ve been keeping up my sleeve like a handkerchief, waiting for the appropriate occasion. ‘Do all vegetarians use trowels to put on make-up like you?’ I ask, ‘or is it just the ones who like gardening?’
While I’m chuckling, my sister continues to look at our mother coldly.
‘Do shut up, Lizzie,’ Rebecca says.
I can’t break them up.
‘Why don’t they experiment on farm animals?’ I ask in a polite, conversational tone designed to cause maximum irritation to my sister. I chop meaningfully at my sausage. ‘They should experiment on pigs and cows and sheep,’ I say, holding up an inch-long wedge of the greasy brown meat. ‘The animals we eat for dinner. Then people wouldn’t complain so much.’
‘Shut up!’ Rebecca bellows at me.
The atmosphere at their end of the table buzzes with something alive and raw.
All her life, Helen has avoided eating meat. It was one of the things our parents argued about. Personally I agreed with Dad, who said children need meat for healthy bones, to feed the brain, and you can see the living proof of how right he was if you compare Helen with me. But Rebecca said children have the right to exercise freedom of choice on ethical matters such as food and religion.
Dad always stood over my sister at mealtimes, making her chew and swallow. When she put meat in her mouth, she wouldn’t let it touch her teeth. She’d chew as little as possible, then take big gulps of orange squash to wash it down.
The minute he left number eleven, she laid down her serrated knife for ever. I think she was pleased he disappeared.
‘They shouldn’t experiment on animals at all,’ she remarks primly, pursing her lips, balancing a carrot upright on her plate before toppling it with her finger. ‘They should experiment on pathetic people like you, Lizzie.’
‘There’s no need to be offensive,’ Rebecca says, tucking a handful of hair behind her ear and bringing her knife and fork together on the plate. An untouched sausage lies on it, glistening. Her hair falls forward again, grey and dead.
‘You’re lucky anybody speaks to you at all. You are so pathetic,’ Helen tells me as she pushes her chair back and walks away from the meal.
Now I’m in a dilemma. Helen disappears down the corridor and slams the front door behind her. I can’t follow her because we’re only half-way through dinner. Strictly speaking, according to the Rules, my sister should remain here in the house to do the washing-up, as we agreed in the contract she signed. But she’s become extremely disobedient recently, showing a flagrant disregard for the most basic of our Rules.
Rebecca heaves a sigh. ‘I’m not hungry either, now.’ She reaches for her cigarettes. ‘I really don’t know what’s got into her recently.’
I decide to test the water and drop a hint about a certain person’s secret friend just to see what our mother’s reaction will be. ‘I think she’s got a friend who’s encouraging her to be like this.’
Rebecca looks at the sausage on her plate, rubbing her arm thoughtfully.
I add carefully, ‘She goes to see him all the time. She’s probably up there now.’
Physically my mother is still sitting in her chair, but mentally she has retreated to another planet where she can’t see or hear me properly. She lights a Marlboro and murmurs, ‘I don’t think she’s old enough for that kind of thing yet, thank God.’
The smoke trembles as it drifts away from her. I reach over and spike the sausage from her plate and eat it with deliberate chews.
****
Tues 22nd November
Rebecca comes home early from work. She arrives at the Nelsons’ house at almost four thirty and, with a determined look on her face, declares that she wishes to remove Helen from the television set and take her into town.
I don’t mind, because I am engaged in a pleasant conversation with Mrs Nelson in the kitchen.
Rebecca is wearing her shabby brown cardigan. The pockets bulge with paper tissues, and the front hangs down six inches lower than the back. There’s a hole in the elbow.
‘Me and Lizzie are setting the world to rights, aren’t we, love?’ Mrs Nelson tells Rebecca, lowering one of her twinkling silver-and-blue eyelids in my direction, giving me a fleshy wink.
Katie is busy upstairs with her homework. I know the dog is up there too because its collar makes a tinkling sound every time it scratches, and its hind-leg thuds on the floor.
Mrs Nelson and I have just prepared Real Martinis using gin, Vermouth, olives and ice. We’re celebrating the fact that this year has seen the appearance of not one, but two new James Bond movies, Octopussy and Never Say Never Again. We haven’t had the chance to say ‘chin-chin’ yet, so I’m relieved when Rebecca lets me know she doesn’t want to drag me into town as well as my sister.
But then, as she leads Helen away, Rebecca declares, ‘We’re off to do the shopping.’
We are all a bit suspicious, especially Helen, but I am livid. She never does the shopping on a weekday.
Helen protests all the way up the path.
‘What was that all about?’ Mrs Nelson muses as we sit back down on the new Habitat barstools with pictures of palm trees and sandy beach scenes on the seats. Mr Nelson assembled them from flatpacks at the weekend to replace the old pine stools.
I find it difficult to concentrate on what Mrs Nelson is saying. I hunch on the stool and chase my olive around the glass, trying to stab its slippery skin with my cocktail stick. Rebecca will spend my weekly housekeeping allowance if she does the shopping today, then I’ll have to use my own scarce resources if I want to see him in the shop between now and next Monday.
But to my immense relief, when they get back to number eleven an hour later and I go home, I discover they haven’t done any shopping at all. It was all an elaborate trick. Instead, when they arrived in town, Rebecca forced Helen into the Health Centre for an appointment with the doctor.
Our mother’s deceptive behaviour was triggered by a letter from Helen’s school. I’m furious when I find out what’s been going on. My sister has been handing out her sandwiches to children in her class every day. I’d like to give her a piece of my mind. How ungrateful. She hasn’t eaten her packed lunch for weeks. She’s on hunger strike till she dies like Bobby Sands.
Now Helen’s locked herself in the bathroom and won’t come out. I’m desperate to go to the toilet. The pressure in my stomach has become intense and I’m not sure I can hold back for much longer. It’s not a pee that I need.
‘Darling, the doctor just wanted to give you a check-up and talk about your nutritional requirements as a vegetarian.’ Rebecca stands next to me, addressing our side of the closed bathroom door.
‘You can’t force me to eat meat! You can’t make me take medicines tested on animals!’
‘Nobody’s going to force you to do anything. You’re looking so poorly at the moment, darling. We need to find out why.’
‘I’m not poorly. Go away!’
‘What happened to my little girl?’
‘I’m not your little girl! I’ll come out when I’m ready, and that’s when you’ve all gone away.’
‘But you haven’t eaten anything for weeks. What’s the matter, Helen? Has something happened?’
Our mother’s questions are met with complete silence.
One central feature of my sister’s personality has always been her selfishness, especially when other people need to use the limited bathroom facilities at number eleven. But usually she is a creep when around adults. Until now this has included our mother. This new razor-sharp sister, who shuts herself in the bathroom, storms away from the dinner table, and abuses our mother whenever she’s asked to do the smallest things, has opened up a completely new tin of worms in our house. I’ve actually started to feel sorry for Rebecca.
Helen breaks her own silence. ‘Go away and leave me alone!’
Rebecca moves away, muttering and sighing.
‘Don’t worry about me,’ I shout. In pain, I hurry out of the back door and circle around the garden like a dog looking for the right spot.
****
Thurs 24th November
Until now, I’ve remained out on the seawall by the old barge. But this week the weather’s turned really cold and rainy. Today I was shivering so much I had to return to number eleven before lunchtime, and reaching home involved running past all the neighbours’ houses in the middle of the day.
Tomorrow I’m going to borrow Rebecca’s old macintosh and umbrella. Then, if I feel brave enough to walk back through the village, I’ll hide my head in the umbrella and make sure my legs stride confidently along the road looking like adult legs.
Just in case Katie tries to get me in trouble again by telling her mum I’m not on the bus after school, I’ve prepared a story for the Nelson household.
‘I’ve joined the school choir,’ I tell Mrs Nelson. ‘We’ve started rehearsals for the Christmas play – Joseph and the Amazing Technicolour Dreamcoat.’
Helen won’t believe this because she knows I hate singing, but I don’t care what she thinks. I need to persuade Mrs Nelson.
‘Isn’t it a bit late to start on the Christmas play?’ Mrs Nelson puckers her forehead and gazes at me through watery eyes. ‘If you start now, you’ll never be ready by the end of term. You’ve only got a couple of weeks left!’
‘Rehearsals will be very intensive,’ I say. ‘I need one-to-one coaching. I’ve been chosen to play Joseph. The other Joseph dropped out.’
‘You’re a girl!’ snorts Mr Nelson, coming into the house through the connecting door to the garage, nudging past with oily hands, heading for the toilet.
I explain quietly to Mrs Nelson that my teacher says I have more than enough talent for this challenging role. ‘All the individual training I’ll be getting means I’ll be arriving back in the village slightly earlier or later than the others on schooldays. Sometimes I might even be back at lunchtime. It’s unpredictable, depending on my singing classes. If I get home early, I’ll go straight to number eleven and continue my singing practice, then I’ll come over to your house as usual after four o’clock.’
The school choir really is going to perform Joseph. The headmaster announced it in assembly at the start of term and encouraged everybody to audition for the show.
Mr Nelson stands in the hall with his back to me, zipping up his brown shiny jacket. He turns around and makes a funny shape with his mouth. He mumbles something.
‘Pardon, dear?’ Mrs Nelson asks.
‘Joseph! Hippy rubbish. Shouldn’t be encouraged at the grammar school.’ He pulls a packet of Benson and Hedges out of his pocket and slides a cigarette under his moustache.
‘Well, personally I’m delighted for you, Lizzie,’ Mrs Nelson says. ‘Come on, let’s have a little something to celebrate.’
Mr Nelson bangs the door behind him. His wiry silhouette hunches briefly outside the frosted glass, then he moves away.
We line up six crystal tumblers in the kitchen and pour a drop of liqueur into each one, using as many different drinks as we can find. Blue Curacao is my favourite one because of its intense, exotic colour.
Katie and Helen scamper around upstairs, squealing like rats. The dog is downstairs for once, staring at us, begging for crisps and peanuts.
Mrs Nelson pours bubbly wine into some of the glasses, creating a sticky fizz which we decorate with plastic mermaids in seaside colours and garnish with paper parasols. She shows me how to turn the blue liqueur green by pouring in just the right amount of orange juice. It tastes delicious! I can’t believe the magical way the drink changes colour. After that, we experiment with Blue Curacao and different soft drinks, trying to find other perfect colours. Most of our experiments turn muddy brown. But they still taste delicious.
‘Now, sing!’ Mrs Nelson taps the top of her glass with her diamond ring, and a note chimes out. ‘La!’ she calls.
‘Jacob!’ I sing, trying to hit the right note. ‘Jacob and sons!’
‘Very good.’ She takes a gulp from her glass, and taps it again, producing a new note.
‘I close my eyes,’ I sing operatically, eyes closed, trying not to ruin the notes by laughing. ‘Pull back the curtain.’
We carry on until she finishes her drink. But when I see Mrs Nelson’s hand reach out to grab her bone china teacup from the cabinet, I take a few steps backwards. Luckily she moves away and decides to rap her diamond ring against other things instead, like the radiator in the hall and the frosted glass panel in the front door until we are laughing so much I can hardly stand up.
Katie and Helen have gone silent upstairs.
Mrs Nelson slumps against the wall. Her eyes fill with tears. I hope she doesn’t start crying. ‘Fuck it!’ she says miserably.
‘Your chunky gold chain would look lovely with that top,’ I say, trying to take her mind off whatever has upset her.
‘Chunky chain?’ She fishes around, trying to remember it.
‘The one he got you on Valentine’s Day.’
‘Oh yes! Shame. Got broken.’
I wonder how those thick links could have broken. Maybe it wasn’t such good quality after all? I hope Mrs Nelson won’t mind that I didn’t manage to finish all my different drinks tonight. I wonder if Dad will bring me a gold chain when he comes home. I wonder what I should make for tea tonight. I hum a little tune. I don’t feel very hungry now.
****
Sat 26th November
I hold the biro lightly and try to concentrate on the form of her words, their shape and texture, how they look.
When she writes ‘hold,’ the o looks like a microscopic snail lost among tall trees.
Given the ongoing absence of the Real Diary, my writing sample is the False Diary, borrowed from her room. Copying out the entries feels strange because, as I write, her words try to become mine. They fix on me like leeches and sink their suckers in. I don’t want her to get under my skin. I want to make her go as far away as possible.
Her new signature’s stupid: it’s a big loop, followed by a straight line. She thinks it looks grownup to have a signature where you can’t decipher the name.
I’m worried that it will take too long to master her new handwriting. Just a few weeks ago, I was able to write her name on the walls without any problem. But this new writing bursts into different styles without warning. She’s so unformed. So shapeless. I have to keep practising. I need to be able to write it fluently before February so I can put my new plan in action.
****
Wed 30th November
Katie Nelson rings our door bell before school. She smiles and holds out a tall box wrapped in silver and pink spotted paper. Her fac
e is bright orange all over, especially her forehead, but her neck looks normal up to the jawbone.
I don’t want to be too friendly in case she gets the wrong idea.
Her cheeks are rosettes of pink. She looks like a fairy from a children’s story, about to grant me a wish.
I wish she’d stop beaming at me with those fluorescent teeth.
I take the present with as much cold dignity as I can muster, and stare at her in an unwelcoming way. She’s just showing-off, standing there on our doorstep to show she’s remembered my birthday.
I knew she’d do something like this in a bid to wriggle her way back into my favour. She wants to be my friend again now she’s getting bored with Helen’s sulky behaviour. It’s also obvious that she’s giving me this present to try to force me to get her a nice Christmas present. I can see through her strategy, and it won’t work with me.
A birthday card and present from my dad arrived in the post this morning. I caught a brief glimpse of the postman’s fingertips as they released the envelopes, then withdrew into the outside world. Paper sailed onto the doormat in a flurry of brown and white. Dad sent me a beautiful Swatch. I can see all the inner cogs on display through the glass, ticking and moving in intricate patterns. The stamp was a picture of the Queen, stuck on upside down, but the postmark was smudged.
I stared at the envelope for ages before opening it. I can recognise his handwriting a hundred miles away. But his writing’s become more real to me than the rest of him. I can’t remember his eyes any more, or his voice, or his laugh, or how he says my name.
‘It’s from Mum and me,’ Katie says, panting with enthusiasm, ignoring my silence. Her hand moves towards me, clutching the large parcel. ‘I chose it specially. Come round later if you like.’
The Third Person Page 13
