by Hilary McKay
‘Enough of this conversation,’ announced Mrs Conroy firmly. ‘Rachel, you can start clearing the table. Ruth and Naomi will help you. Phoebe, finish your tea properly!’
‘I can’t,’ said Phoebe, ‘they have got tails!’ She sat mutinously at the table with her father, while Mrs Conroy left to supervise the washing-up.
‘Leave them if you like,’ said her father. ‘No one will mind.’
‘I mind,’ said Phoebe, crossly.
‘Well, then, pass me your plate and I’ll make you a sandwich,’ said Mr Conroy. ‘You can see if that helps.’
Phoebe handed over her plate and her father reassembled its contents into a more discreet form. ‘There you are,’ he said, ‘what the eye doesn’t see . . . Why have you stuck Ruth and Naomi in prison?’
‘It’s a zoo, not a prison.’
‘Just as bad.’
‘It was a case of offended dignity,’ said Mrs Conroy, reappearing for a moment.
Phoebe, chewing her sandwich, left the table to poke a bit of lettuce through the bars to Ruth.
‘What if I took her out?’ asked Mr Conroy.
‘She would still be in,’ replied Phoebe, ‘in my mind.’
‘What did she do?’
‘Said I screamed,’ explained Phoebe with her mouth full, ‘when I was a baby. Like Peter next door. I didn’t, did I?’
‘You were the soul of discretion,’ said Mr Conroy solemnly.
‘Did Ruth and Naomi scream?’
‘Continually.’
Phoebe looked pleased and, swallowing the last of her sandwich, leaned companionably against her father as she admired her captives.
‘You wouldn’t put your poor old dad in a zoo, would you?’ asked Mr Conroy, looking down at her.
‘No,’ said Phoebe.
In the kitchen, Rachel dumped plates into the washing-up bowl and pulled them out again straight away.
‘I’m not drying that,’ said Naomi, ‘it’s still got a whole sardine on it.’
‘I’ll wash if you like,’ Ruth offered, ‘for fifty pence.’
‘Ten,’ said Rachel.
‘Forty.’
‘Twenty.’
‘Oh all right.’
‘D’you need money that much?’ asked Naomi, as Rachel vanished before Ruth could change her mind.
‘You know I do. I’m going to see if I can baby-sit Peter, but I still need ten pounds now. I’ve got to send it off soon. I’ve only got three saved up. How much have you got?’
‘Three,’ said Naomi, ‘and a bit of change from Big Grandma’s ten pound note, about eighty pence.’
‘That’s seven then,’ said Ruth, ‘with Rachel’s money. It’s not enough.’
Beside the kitchen sink stood an old wooden clog, which the Conroys used to drop all the odds and ends in found lying round the kitchen. Ruth emptied its contents on to the table. There were several buttons and elastic bands, the three plastic lambs that had been on the Christmas cake, a scattering of coppers and a few five pence pieces, a tooth, half a packet of mustard and cress seed, and a diamond and sapphire ring.
‘Good heavens!’ said Mrs Conroy, coming in and picking it up. ‘That’s Mother’s ring! I didn’t even know she’d left it!’
‘Please can I have the change?’ asked Ruth.
‘Yes, I suppose so,’ agreed Mrs Conroy, turning over the contents of the clog. ‘Rachel’s tooth! I never know what to do with teeth! It seems a bit heartless to throw them away. Some mothers keep them, and first shoes and bits of hair and goodness knows what.’
‘So what do you do with them?’ asked Naomi.
‘Well, throw them away, I’m afraid,’ confessed Mrs Conroy. ‘After all, there’s four of you; it would end up as bad as Ruth’s bone collection if I didn’t. And I once caught Rachel recycling teeth, taking them off my dressing table and putting them back under her pillow. Your father paid out night after night without noticing! Thank you for washing up.’
‘If we find any more bits of money lying about, can we keep it?’ asked Naomi. ‘It’s for charity.’
‘If you’re that hard-up,’ agreed Mrs Conroy, ‘one good turn deserves another! Something’s been rattling round the washing machine, if you want to unscrew the filter and have a look. And there’s twenty pence in your father’s shaving mug, and speaking of good turns, I’ve been meaning to mention. I’m going back to work this spring. You two Big Ones especially, are going to find yourselves helping out a bit more.’
‘Back to nursing?’ asked Ruth. ‘Can you remember how?’
‘There’s a refresher course,’ Mrs Conroy said. ‘It will only be part-time when they need extra staff.’
Ruth, grovelling round the back of the washing machine, emerged with forty pence and a lot of fluff.
‘I knew,’ said Naomi unexpectedly. ‘Big Grandma told me. She said we’d have to help with Rachel and Phoebe. Well, at least they’re house-trained, not like Peter! There’s ninety pence in this shoe.’ She pushed the change over to Ruth.
‘I hope it’s for a good cause,’ remarked Mrs Conroy, watching them. ‘Yes, I always liked nursing, and Grandma tells me you managed very well last summer, looking after each other.’
‘Did she?’ asked Naomi, looking very surprised.
‘You’re growing up fast now,’ continued Mrs Conroy, ignoring Naomi on purpose. ‘Time you had a bit more responsibility.’
Ruth and Naomi wondered what their mother would say if she knew how much responsibility they had recently undertaken. ‘Seven pounds ninety, eight pounds thirty,’ counted Ruth when Mrs Conroy had gone. ‘Eight pounds fifty, nearly enough,’ she added, when Naomi produced the shaving mug’s twenty pence.
‘We ought to try scooping down the backs of the living room chairs,’ suggested Naomi. ‘We haven’t done it for ages. Big Grandma said it would be good for all of us.’
‘Scooping down chairs?’
‘Mum going to work.’
‘Oh.’
The chairs produced a further fifty pence, numerous hair-slides and a quantity of nutshells.
‘Nine pounds,’ said Naomi, ‘and that’s the lot. We won’t be able to do this again you know; all this must have been piling up for ages.’
Despite further searching, that really did seem to be the lot, and it had taken all evening to find. But Peter unexpectedly saved them in the morning.
‘Naomi!’ Mrs Collingwood stopped Naomi as she passed the house. ‘My poor Peter owes you an apology, I’m afraid! Dreadfully sick all over your mag last night!’ And she showed Naomi the damp and disgusting remains of her football magazine. Naomi stepped backwards hastily.
‘You’ll have to get yourself another!’ said Mrs Collingwood. ‘Can’t say I’m sorry, because it might have been the carpet. Martin says two pounds will cover it, so there we are, and we’re very sorry, aren’t we, Peter-pet?’
Peter, who was squirming in his mother’s arms, didn’t look sorry. He hung his tongue out at Naomi, and then grabbed the magazine and stuffed it in his mouth.
‘Chews everything!’ remarked Mrs Collingwood cheerfully. ‘Teeth! Wave bye-bye!’
Naomi, not quite sure who was being addressed, herself or Peter, waved bye-bye.
‘Good old Peter,’ said Ruth with relief when she heard the news. ‘He is precious! In a way!’
‘ “Good old Naomi”, you should say,’ commented Naomi, ‘I could have kept the money; it was my magazine! You’ll have to think of something better.’
‘I know.’
CHAPTER FOUR
Dear Sponsor,
I am happy to write again to a new sponsor. I am very happy to write to you.
We write the letters in class, in school. Long letters or short letters, we can choose. The youngest students draw pictures for their sponsors, but I like to write.
I have seen your small country of England on the map on the classroom wall. I have seen London and Manchester which is where Manchester United are from. Everybody knows Manchester United here.
Have you seen my country on a map? It is good here. We have no problems in this area. I hope you have no problems in your area.
I am well. I am going on well with my studies. My favourite is maths and football and English. I have studied English for three years. That is how I can write to you. I like to learn a new language. Now I have three languages, my home language, Swahili, English. Next I may learn French. Many languages are spoken in my country. Are many languages spoken with you?
At our place we grow vegetables. We have goats and some hens. My father works building. At home he built from wood a new small house for the goats. They stand on the roof, jump up, jump down. I think they laugh at us.
Many books are waiting for me to read.
And so I will stop writing.
Your new friend, Joseck
Even in ordinary years, February was a month that stretched the girls’ resources to their limits.
‘Three birthdays and a boy to sponsor!’ said Naomi, sighing.
‘I’m not bothering with Phoebe’s birthday unless she takes me out of the zoo,’ Ruth replied.
‘Neither will I, then,’ agreed Naomi.
‘Neither will you what?’ asked Rachel.
‘Bother with Phoebe’s birthday unless she takes us out of the zoo.’
‘I won’t either then,’ said Rachel.
‘Are you in there, too?’
‘I got put in yesterday. She made another cage, just for me. You go and look, it’s awful.’
There were now three cages lined up on the living room windowsill. Ruth and Naomi glared through the bars of one. Another contained cardboard figures of Phoebe’s teacher and the Lollipop Lady (recognizable by her Lollipop). ‘Not Tame Yet’ read their description. In the third was Rachel, all alone and unkindly labelled, ‘The Slege Monster’.
‘See?’ said Rachel.
‘What did you do?’
‘Nothing, she just hates my sledge, that’s all.’
‘Did it fall on her in the night again?’
Rachel did not answer, but rattled the bars of her cage rather moodily.
‘Well, you don’t have to do anything,’ said Naomi, ‘I didn’t. I just got put in for no reason at all.’
‘You laughed about the pushchair pushing!’ said a voice through a crack in the door. ‘You said sardines had tails. And you have been ROBBING MY TRAIN! I saw you!’
Phoebe appeared, clutching her train and a tin-opener. ‘With a knitting needle! You know you were!’
‘I was only seeing if anything would come out.’
‘Did anything?’
‘No.’
‘Lucky for you,’ said Phoebe ominously. ‘I heard you talking about my birthday.’
‘We’re not bothering about your birthday unless you let us out of the zoo,’ said Ruth.
‘I won’t.’ Phoebe continued to fish down the slot of her train with the bottle-opener bit of the tin-opener. Tiny bits of paper came up on the hook.
‘You’ll chop that ten pound note to pieces if you’re not careful,’ warned Naomi. ‘You’re probably squashing it further and further in. Let me have a go.’
Phoebe handed her train over to Naomi, who poked and poked and achieved nothing.
‘What about the vacuum cleaner?’ suggested Ruth. ‘It might suck it out.’
It did not suck it out; they tried for an hour before they gave up, at the end of which Phoebe evidently felt more kindly towards her sisters. She did not let them out of the zoo, but she fed them bits of biscuit through the bars and made them cotton wool nests. Martin came round while they were admiring them, took one look, and said rashly that Phoebe obviously had a personality problem. Phoebe tore out of the room to look for a box.
‘Now she’s gone,’ said Martin to Ruth, ‘will you come round and look at Peter and tell me if Phoebe did anything like he’s doing now?’
It did not sound a very tempting invitation, but it was another opportunity to make herself indispensable to Peter, and so Ruth agreed.
‘Did she do that?’ asked Martin, ushering Ruth into the Collingwoods’ large and gleaming kitchen.
‘Oh yes,’ said Ruth, looking in at Peter. ‘That sort of thing, anyway.’
Peter, strapped in his high chair, was covered in butter and crumbs, beating his fists as hard as he could on his blue plastic table. Under the fists were crumbs that had been crisps, and all over the floor were more crumbs, a feeding cup, evidently hurled there, his bunny rabbit plate, his shoes and his socks.
‘I started him off with his tea,’ said Martin. ‘Mum asked me to because she’s up in her office telephoning and in a minute she has to dash out. But look!’
‘Does she always get so much ready?’ asked Ruth, catching sight of the stack of miniature egg sandwiches, the salad and apple and cubes of cheese, still waiting on the dresser. It looked an awful lot for a two-year-old.
‘Oh no,’ said Martin, ‘only when she knows I’ll have to feed him. It takes such a lot to get any in.’
‘What does he do when you give him a sandwich?’
‘I’ll show you.’
Peter grabbed the sandwich, ripped it in half, squeezed it through his fists, chewed his knuckles, flung one handful on to the floor, hammered the rest flat on his tray, licked up the remains, and turned and dribbled them over the edge.
‘Did Phoebe do that?’ asked Martin.
‘Sometimes. Don’t tell her I said so, though.’
‘What did you do?’
‘Mum used to say, “Right then, we’ll fetch Rachel!” ’
‘What did Rachel do?’
‘Well, she ate everything.’
‘Even the screwed-up bits?’
‘Oh yes, usually.’
Martin looked at Peter’s screwed-up bits and shuddered. ‘I’m not.’
‘No, but it’s the right idea. We should take everything away, and tidy up, just as if he’d had it.’
Peter watched in horror as they cleaned the floor, wiped down his chair, washed his hands and arms and elbows and face and head (‘Good job he hasn’t got much hair,’ commented Ruth) and removed the food from sight. He opened his mouth and howled.
‘Very nice sandwiches,’ said Ruth, taking one out of the fridge and eating it. ‘Have one too.’
Martin obediently took one while Peter stared in disbelief.
‘Yum!’ said Martin.
‘Yum!’ agreed Ruth, took another, cut it in half, ate one piece herself and, put the other on Peter’s tray. Peter made a grab for it, but Ruth got there faster.
‘That’s what Rachel used to do to Phoebe.’ She put another corner of sandwich on Peter’s tray and let him get it first. He stuffed it into his mouth as if he was starving.
‘See,’ said Ruth, rather smugly, ‘only you mustn’t let him think you want him to eat it.’ She ate two more pieces herself before she let Peter grab another. ‘He watches you just like Josh does,’ she remarked, giving him a bit of cheese. ‘Good old Peter,’ she added, producing another when it was gone, ‘Have a bit more. Food tastes better when you have to fight for it!’ and she ate one of his apple slices to prove her point.
‘Try him with a whole sandwich,’ said Martin.
Ruth did, and he ate it in two starving bites while she took a pretend swig out of his mug and passed it to Martin who obligingly took one too.
‘Brilliant,’ said Martin, as Peter nearly suffocated himself draining it dry before they could get any more. Mrs Collingwood came in to the astonishing sight of a clean kitchen and her younger son clutching the last sandwich tight in both hands and glaring at Ruth as he consumed it.
‘Look what Ruth’s made him do!’ said Martin.
‘Ruth, you’re a hero!’ Mrs Collingwood exclaimed. ‘Fancy you knowing how to manage him. And he’s so clean,’ she added kissing Peter’s bald head, ‘compared to what we’re used to, I mean! You should see the state of him usually!’
‘She did,’ said Martin, ‘we cleared it up.’
‘So useful,’ con
tinued Mrs Collingwood, unstrapping Peter and turning him loose on the kitchen floor, where he grovelled round looking for crumbs. ‘Could we ask you again sometime? Say, a pound a time, food thrown in, so to speak?’
Ruth stared at her, speechless. She had never imagined it would be so easy. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Martin watching her hopefully.
‘It would only be now and then, say once or twice a week. Martin would be here, moral support, if nothing else! Do say yes!’
‘Oh yes!’ said Ruth.
‘I’ll have a word with your mother, if you like, although I’m sure she won’t mind. Right then, Peter, bath time. Would you like to help, Ruth?’
‘No!’ said Ruth hastily, ‘I mean yes, but it’ll be tea-time at home, I’d better go. Oh no,’ she added, seeing Mrs Collingwood reach for her purse, ‘today can be a free sample!’
‘Rubbish,’ said Mrs Collingwood, gathering up Peter, ‘I have to pay you, you might never come back otherwise!’
‘I’ve got a job,’ announced Ruth happily at tea-time, ‘feeding Peter, a pound a meal!’
‘Did you ask?’ asked Mrs Conroy sternly, ‘or did they offer?’
‘They offered,’ replied Ruth proudly, ‘they begged!’
‘Ask if you have to wear your own clothes,’ said Mr Conroy solemnly. ‘I’ve seen that young man with an ice cream. Shocking!’
Naomi waited until she and Ruth were alone together before she said, ‘Do you realise that you will have to feed Peter more than a hundred times to get ten pounds a month for a year? That’s once every three days! They’ll never want you so often.’
‘There’s pocket money too.’
‘There’s all the birthdays this month.’
‘Homemade for Rachel and Phoebe,’ said Ruth firmly, ‘and flowers and we’ll make a birthday cake for Mum to surprise her. She’ll like that.’
Mrs Conroy did like it, but when it came to Rachel’s birthday, she demanded explanations.
‘What is it?’
‘It’s a sledge case!’
‘I’ve never seen one before. There’s no such thing!’
It was made from an ancient stripy sheet. It looked like a huge bag with straps. So that there should be no doubt as to its use, Ruth and Naomi had embroidered ‘Sledge Case’ on it in loopy chain stitch.
