‘But what did you say? How did you persuade her?’
‘Can we listen to Lady Gaga, Amber?’
I grit my teeth. We’re not even halfway to Jo’s house yet. There’s a limit to how many loud, pounding songs I can cope with, hot on the heels of a Maths meltdown. My secret rule is no music before we pass the Chinese supermarket on the junction of Valley Road and Hopelea Street. If Dinah and Nonie would only learn to love Dar Williams or Martha Wainwright, I’d happily let them listen all the way from school to Jo’s.
‘Amber? Can we?’
‘Tell me what Mrs Truscott said!’
‘In a minute, Nones.’ I risk taking both hands off the wheel for a second and blow on them in a vain attempt to warm them up. ‘I just . . . I don’t know, Dinah, I don’t remember every word of the conversation. I told her how much the play meant to you . . .’
‘You’re lying. I can always tell when you’re lying.’
‘Even when I’ve got my back to you? That’s not fair.’
‘What’s not fair?’ Nonie asks, alarmed in case an injustice snuck past her and she missed it.
‘Dinah knowing I’m lying.’
‘Why isn’t it fair?’
‘Because I’m a grown-up. I’ve been one for ages. I’ve earned the right to get away with more than I seem to be able to.’ When I’m not lying, I’m being too honest. I know that later I will have to explain to Nonie what I meant by this remark, once I’ve finished explaining the whole of Maths to her.
‘What did you threaten her with?’ says Dinah, who will not be diverted. ‘She wouldn’t have backed down unless you scared her more than she was already scared of the parents who complained.’
‘Is that how you see me, as someone who lies and threatens and intimidates people?’
‘Yes.’ After a pause, Dinah says, ‘Maybe it’s not a good idea for you and Luke to adopt us.’
‘Don’t say that!’ Nonie wails. Wonderful; she’s in tears again. ‘It is a good idea. It’s the best idea.’
I’m not sure if my heart is still beating. The car continues to move forward; that has to be a positive sign.
‘If you adopt us, you’ll become a parent,’ Dinah clarifies. ‘You’ll stop doing all the best things you do, like frightening Mrs Truscott. You’re always laughing at the stupid things our friends’ parents do and say, all their stupid parenty rules. You’ll become as stupid as them.’
Relief pours through me, flooding every inch of me. ‘I won’t become parenty. I promise.’ If the adoption is approved, if Marianne doesn’t ruin everything.
‘So what did you do? To Mrs Truscott?’
‘Amber, is seventeen plus three twenty?’ Nonie asks.
‘Yes, it is. Well done.’ This is what she always does, and it makes me ache with love for her. Afraid she’s a disappointment to us all because she couldn’t answer the harder question, she asks herself an easier one and answers it correctly, to prove that she’s not a total waste of space. To Dinah I say, ‘You guessed right. I threatened her, and she caved.’
Excited gasps from the backseat. I can’t help grinning.
‘What did you say you’d do?’ Dinah snaps, unable to contain her eagerness to know. ‘Did you nearly hit her?’
‘No. It’s really dull. You’ll be disappointed,’ I warn her. ‘I tried to persuade her first, told her it wasn’t fair to promise you could put on your play and then take it back, but she just kept saying it was unfortunate and couldn’t be helped, as if it had nothing to do with her. So I pointed out that whenever there’s a concert or panto at school, she’s there handing out wine and sherry to the parents with a big smile on her face and receiving completely unrelated voluntary “donations” to school funds that just happen to be about the same price as a glass of wine, or two, or four, if Dr and Mrs Doubly-Barrelly have brought Granny and Grandad along.’
‘That’s really clever,’ says Dinah. Unusually for her, she sounds humble. Full of admiration. I ought to feel guilty, but I’m chuffed to bits.
‘I don’t understand,’ says Nonie.
‘School’s not allowed to sell alcohol,’ Dinah tells her. ‘You need a special licence from Amber’s work and school hasn’t got one. Mrs Truscott’s been selling it, but pretending she hasn’t been, and Amber threatened to have her arrested if—’
‘Well, not quite,’ I chip in. ‘I just told her that, as Licensing Manager for the council . . . To be honest, that was all I needed to say. Like all the best threats, mine was implied, not overtly stated.’ Shit. It’s not ideal that I said that out loud. I clear my throat. ‘Threatening people is wrong, nearly always, but so is . . . alcohol pushing. If you drink too much alcohol you can get addicted to it and even die. Okay, who wants some Lady Gaga?’ I say brightly.
‘I need to understand my Maths homework first,’ says Nonie, nervous now that her wish looks likely to be granted. ‘Ask me a sum.’
I imagine groaning loudly – a long roar, like a lion’s – until the urge to groan passes. ‘Okay. But, please, please, try not to get upset, whatever happens.’
‘You mean when I get it wrong?’
‘No.’ Yes. ‘That is not what I mean. What’s fifty-eight plus five?’ Am I reinforcing her belief that she doesn’t deserve to listen to music until she’s completed a gruelling intellectual obstacle course? Should my motto, as her guardian, be melodic pornography first, Maths later?
Nonie’s panic is instant. ‘I don’t know! Fifty-three? No! Sixty-one? Sixty!’
‘Calm down, Nonie. Listen. Fifty-eight plus two is sixty, isn’t it? So . . .’
‘I know that! Fifty-eight plus two is sixty, fifty-eight plus one is fifty-nine. See? I can do it as long as it doesn’t go over the next ten!’ The sound of her hyperventilating fills the car. It makes me want to open my window and risk losing my nose to frostbite.
‘Nones,’ I say evenly. ‘I can teach you what to do, other than panic, if it does go over the next—’
‘Fifty-two! Fifty-three!’
‘Don’t, like, explode,’ Dinah contributes helpfully.
‘Nonie, I can’t do this if you just keep shouting numbers at me, love.’
‘It’s fifty-three!’ she shrieks, triumphant suddenly. ‘Fifty-eight plus two is fifty, plus another three to make the five . . .’
‘She’s counting on her fingers,’ says Dinah. ‘It’s supposed to be mental arithmetic.’
‘Fifty-three,’ Nonie insists. ‘Isn’t it, Amber?’
‘Well, actually, you’ve done pretty well,’ I start to say.
‘Pretty well?’ Dinah queries. ‘It’s sixty-three. Fifty-eight plus two isn’t fifty, it’s sixty.’
‘Oh, no! I hate it! I’ll never get an answer right!’ Nonie sobs.
‘Yes, you will, Nones. You did brilliantly.’ I give her leg another squeeze. ‘You used the right technique. You understood how to do it, that’s the most important thing. You got fifty and sixty mixed up, but so what?’ They’re close enough, in the grand scheme of things. Do we really have to split hairs? ‘I know you meant sixty.’
‘It’s lucky you’re not a Maths teacher,’ Dinah tells me.
I manage not to say that I would rather spend my days monitoring the behaviour of slugs than teaching Maths, and award myself a point for restraint and maturity.
‘Amber does teach Maths,’ says Nonie. ‘She teaches it to me.’
There are more empty crisp packets than usual blowing around the pavement outside the Chinese supermarket, as well as a couple of empty lager cans and the contents of several car ashtrays near the kerb. Living with Dinah has made me more sensitive to this sort of sight. There’s no way she won’t notice. One, two, three . . .
‘Look at that,’ she says. ‘It’s disgusting. People who drop litter should be put in prison. They should have their cells filled with piles of rubbish, so high that they can’t stick their heads above the pile, and they have to breathe in the horrid smell forever.’
‘You can’t do that to people, whate
ver they’ve done,’ says Nonie. ‘Can you, Amber?’
I switch on the car stereo without asking the girls whether they still want music or not, and turn the volume up higher than I’m normally able to tolerate. I don’t even like Lady Gaga, except as a way of ending conversations, when I’m too drained to talk any more. I should have tried this technique with Simon Waterhouse when he tried to insist on seeing me today. I’m sorry, I’m far too busy. Now let me drown out all your follow-up questions with ‘Bad Romance’.
I wasn’t prepared to talk to him without first warning Jo; it wouldn’t have been fair to her. Jo probably gets better behaviour from me than anyone else I know: more consideration, more tact. I can never decide if this is sensible self-preservation on my part or a foolish waste of my thoughtfulness, given the way I feel about her. It benefits me as much as it does her if I deprive her of reasons to attack me, but sometimes she lays into me anyway, which forces me to notice my incessant pandering to her, and its futility, and then I become enraged to no effect whatsoever.
Why didn’t I decide it was more important to be fair to Simon Waterhouse, who has only ever treated me well? Why does it still matter to me to prove to Jo that I’m a better person than she thinks I am?
‘What’s “Kind, Cruel, Kind of Cruel”?’ Dinah asks in the short gap between two songs.
I turn off the stereo. ‘Where did you hear that?’
‘Nowhere.’
I pull in to the kerb, slam my foot down on the brake. ‘Dinah, don’t mess me around. This is important. Where did you—’
‘I didn’t hear it anywhere. I saw it written down.’
‘Where? When?’ It can’t be this easy, surely.
‘This morning. On yesterday’s telly page. You wrote it. It was your handwriting.’
My whole body sags. I must look like an airbag with a puncture, slowly deflating. ‘Right,’ I say. ‘Sorry, I . . . I misunderstood. I was just doodling.’
‘A doodle’s a picture, not words,’ says Nonie.
‘But why did you write those words?’ asks Dinah. ‘Where did you get them from?’
‘I don’t know. I was just mucking around, I suppose.’
‘Why did you say it was important? Why are those words important?’
‘Dinah, stop!’ Nonie begs.
‘They’re not, they’re—’
‘You’re lying again.’
‘Dinah, please.’ I try to sound authoritative.
‘Please don’t make you admit that you’re lying? Why don’t you just say you’d rather not tell me?’
It’s either a way out or a trap. I’m desperate enough to try it. ‘I’d rather not tell you.’
‘Okay.’ I can’t see Dinah’s shrug of acceptance, but I can hear it. Brilliant. Lies and reconciliation: the way forward.
‘Is Kirsty going to be at Jo’s?’ Nonie asks.
‘Probably. With Hilary.’
‘Amber?’
‘Mm?’
‘What’s wrong with Kirsty? How did she get like that?’
‘I don’t know, Nones. I can’t really ask.’ I tried it once, tactfully, and got savaged.
‘I’m glad Nonie’s my sister,’ says Dinah. ‘I’d hate to have a sister like Kirsty. I wouldn’t be able to love her. You can’t love someone who’s like that.’
‘Dinah! That’s—’ I break off. I was going to say that it was a terrible thing to say, but perhaps it’s more terrible to make an eight-year-old feel guilty for expressing her feelings. ‘Jo loves Kirsty very much,’ I say instead. ‘And if you and Nonie had a sister like Kirsty, I’m sure you would love her, actually, because—’
‘I wouldn’t,’ Dinah insists. ‘I wouldn’t let myself. When someone’s like Kirsty and can’t talk, you can’t tell if they’re a nice person or a mean person. What if you love them and all the time they’re mean and horrible, but the meanness is locked inside, so you don’t know?’
I struggle to hide my shock. ‘It’s not like that, Dines. Kirsty isn’t nice or not nice in the way most people are. Her mind’s never developed enough for her to be one or the other. Mentally, she’s almost like . . . well, she’s like a baby.’
‘How can you say that if you don’t know what’s wrong with her? How do you know she isn’t the kindest or cruellest person in the world, but because she can’t say anything, no one ever finds out?’
‘Some babies seem quite mean,’ says Nonie. ‘The ones who scream angrily. I know all babies cry, but some do sad crying. I think those are the nice ones.’
If Sharon were here, would she know how to deal with this barrage of bizarre theories from her daughters? I close my eyes. Don’t go there. Focus on something else: the litter, the complicated symbols on the dashboard. I can’t let myself think about Sharon; I need to arrive at Jo’s with my defences intact.
What’s fifty-eight plus sixty-three?
‘Amber!’
Dinah’s voice brings me back. I must have fallen asleep for a few seconds. It would be nice to be able to say I feel refreshed, but it wouldn’t be true. Rather, it’s as if someone’s pumped a heavy fog into my brain. I sigh and start up the engine. I ought be delivering a lecture about the innate value of all human beings as I drive, but I don’t have the energy. Instead, I make the girls swear not to mention our conversation about Kirsty to Jo. Ever.
‘Hello, hello! Come in!’ Jo holds the door open for us, a big smile on her face. Today is a cloud-hair day, which means she didn’t bother to apply what she calls her ‘special stuff’ this morning to make each individual curl stand out. I look at her and see a woman who is so obviously welcoming and kind-hearted that it’s almost embarrassing to remember how often I’ve suspected otherwise. This is always my first reaction. Something about the sudden sight of her encourages my brain to play tricks on itself.
She’s wearing faded jeans with rips in the knees and a tight orange T-shirt with a scoop neck, beaming at us as if we’ve made her day by turning up. ‘Hi, sweetie, how are you? Hi, Nones – did you survive Wednesday Maths? Amber, you look knackered, hon. If you need to close your eyes for ten minutes, you’re welcome to use mine and Neil’s bed. No one’ll bother you if you go in there. I’ll make you up a hot water bottle if you want.’
I need to close my eyes for ten years. ‘I’m fine, thanks.’ Of course someone would bother me. No one could succeed in remaining alone in a room in Jo’s house for more than thirty seconds. There are too many people wandering around, always. I can hear Quentin, Sabina and William talking in the background, all at the same time. Beneath the voices is an uneven galloping sound I’ve heard many times before: Kirsty running across the upstairs landing with Hilary following close behind.
‘Sure?’ Jo asks.
‘It’s very tempting. I wouldn’t sleep, though, and then I’d feel worse.’
‘Poor you. It must be awful.’
I force a smile, think about the time she asked me impatiently if I’d ever wondered whether maybe I just wasn’t tired enough, wasn’t working hard enough during the day, and that was why I wasn’t able to fall asleep.
This is what I do. When she’s nice to me, I remember all the wounds she has unwittingly inflicted over the years. When she’s chilly and insensitive, her long list of good deeds is what clamours for my attention. I struggle to perceive her in the round and never quite succeed. All I know is that she’s not at all like me. It would be too easy to explain the difference between us by saying that she’s more changeable than I am, or that she doesn’t hold grudges and I do. I know other weirdos – Luke, for example – who are able to forgive, forget and move on, but with Jo it’s as if she’s pressed some kind of internal delete button and anything she doesn’t want to think about, like Little Orchard, is wiped from the record as if it never existed, enabling her to grin at me like an ecstatic idiot who remembers nothing.
‘Earth to Amber, as Barney would say!’
Did she ask me a question? ‘I’m fine, Jo, really.’ It’s too early in our visit for me to start
thinking analytically. I haven’t even taken off my coat, and nothing has happened so far that requires analysis. Act like a normal visitor. Ask for a cup of tea.
‘You must be gasping for a brew,’ Jo says, on cue. In this house, whatever you want or need is offered before you have the chance to ask for it. It’s strangely disempowering.
God, I’m a petty bitch. How can anyone stand me? Maybe no one can.
Sharon could stand you. The bitchier you were, the more she laughed. That’s why you were so much kinder around her. You knew there was no point bitching – she’d only keep liking you anyway, stubborn cow that she was.
‘Reading your face, I’d say you’ve had a rough day,’ Jo says. ‘Tell you what, you can have one of my new posh teabags – each one individually wrapped in its own packet inside the box. There’s classy for you.’
‘It’s no more than I expect,’ I say mock-grandly, and she laughs on her way back to the kitchen, a room she will not be parted from for longer than five minutes at a time.
Dinah and Nonie have disappeared behind the closed door of the dining room with William and Barney, leaving their puffy air-bed coats on the hall floor. I gather them up, take mine off and try to hang all three on the pegs on the wall. As usual, I fail. Everyone who lives in or near Rawndesley has at some point popped round to Jo’s, hung up a jacket, cagoule, duffel or mac here, left without it, and never returned to collect it. I once stood where I’m standing now and listened as Neil, in a tone of mild surprise, went through the coats one by one. ‘That’s Mrs Boyd’s from across the road, and . . . oh, yeah, this is Sabina’s mum’s, from when she came over from Italy, and I think Jo said this one belongs to someone from Sabina’s Pilates class.’
Jo is a very different sort of homemaker to me – not that I’d ever describe myself in those terms. I organise my home for the benefit of the people who live in it: me, Luke, Dinah and Nonie. Jo runs hers for the greater good of mankind. I still can’t quite believe she let Quentin have William’s bedroom when Pam died. William and Barney now share the tiny box room that’s barely big enough for one child.
Kind of Cruel Page 17
