Needlemouse

by Jane O'Connor

  Spring

  * * *

  Spring is when hedgehogs come out of hibernation and join the living world again. Their main aims at this time of year are to feast on the good things in the garden and find a mate.

  The Ancient Egyptians venerated the hedgehog as a symbol of rebirth due to its cyclical reappearance, and as a symbol of protection thanks to its spikes. Amulets of hedgehogs and small hedgehog statues have been found on archaeological sites dating back to 1700BC.

  The main hedgehog rutting season takes place in May and June. The boar circles round the sow, snuffling and grunting for hours until she finally acquiesces and flattens her prickles so he can mount her. There is certainly verisimilitude in the old joke: ‘How do hedgehogs mate? Carefully!’

  Baby hedgehogs are called hoglets. They are born blind, with soft white spines after four to five weeks gestation. By eleven days they can roll into a ball. Hoglets stay with their mother and suckle until they have put on enough weight to survive by themselves. She teaches them how to hunt for food and stay out of sight during the day. However, hedgehogs are solitary by nature and once they leave the nest they are unlikely to encounter their mother or siblings again. A group of hedgehogs, rare though that might be, is called a ‘prickle’.

  Jonas Entwistle, The Hedgehog Year

  Wednesday 9 March

  Crystal drops in now most Wednesday afternoons, just for half an hour or so on her way home, and it is the highlight of my week. I have started baking in the mornings so I have something nice to offer her when she gets here and it gives me something to do in place of reading Prof’s work. She teases me that I make all these cakes and scones and brownies and never eat any myself, so I am trying to have a couple of bites to be sociable when she is here and not worry too much about the calories, even if it does make me a little anxious. We talk about her day, her friends at school, her lunch hours spent in the art room, and how awkward things are with Lewis who has now declared his love for her and follows her around like a motherless chick. I have advised her that the kindest course of action would be to sit him down and explain clearly that she doesn’t return his feelings, but I know how hard that would be for her. She’s not one for confrontations and is soft as butter inside; she doesn’t want to hurt him.

  ‘It makes me feel guilty, Aunt Sylvia,’ she told me today. ‘Like I owe him something just because he has feelings for me. But I didn’t ask him to feel that way about me and I don’t want him. I mean, I like him as a friend, but I don’t fancy him at all, and now it’s as if his happiness is my responsibility and I don’t want it, it’s not fair. Does that make me sound like a mean person?’ I could see how much it was upsetting her and I felt an unexpected twinge of guilt for my misplaced devotion to Prof. Then she astonished herself by saying, ‘I don’t know if I like boys at all in that way, actually.’

  I hugged her and told her she hadn’t done anything wrong and that you can’t help how you feel, or don’t feel, about someone else. And that if she doesn’t like boys it’s no big deal and that the most important part of life is finding out how to be happy and to be peaceful inside and not to waste time always trying to please other people. The irony of me, of all people, handing out romantic advice! But she squeezed my hand and thanked me for understanding.

  We don’t talk about the awful scene at her home back in November when everything became uncovered, and I don’t ask about Millie or Kamal or try to find out more about what happened after I left that day. I think it is easier for both of us to pretend that it never happened, even though it is always there, really – the proverbial elephant in the room.

  I don’t think Millie knows that Crystal comes to visit me, or if she does, it is certainly not with her blessing. It is curious how I never noticed before how alike Crystal and I are, but by talking to her and getting to know her, I now realise that she is complicated and sensitive and finds life hard. She finds people perplexing and draining and needs lots of alone time to recharge. She overthinks things and her emotions and thoughts scare her sometimes. She tries hard to be what Millie and Kamal want her to be, but inside she feels she is someone different, and that this is somehow wrong. It has not always been easy for Crystal being their daughter. I wish I had seen it sooner. I could have been much more of a support for her, growing up. Another item to add to my list of regrets. How blind I’ve been about so many things.

  Friday 18 March

  The phone startled me this morning. I was reading through a recipe I had pulled out of a magazine for a coffee cake I thought Crystal might like when the landline began to ring. It springs to life so rarely that I’d almost forgotten it was there. I picked it up with trepidation, expecting a cold caller, which it was, but not in the usual meaning of the phrase. My heart leapt at the sound of Millie’s voice and I hoped that she was calling to say that she was missing me and wanted to start building bridges. How wrong I was. The conversation went like this:

  ‘Sylvia?’

  ‘Yes … is that you, Millie?’ (I knew it was her; I was playing for time, waiting for my heart to stop racing.)

  ‘You know it is, Sylvia.’ (I can’t remember the last time she used my name; she usually calls me ‘darling’ or ‘sweetie’. Each formal ‘Sylvia’ cut me like a knife.)

  ‘Are you OK?’ (I didn’t know what else to say.)

  ‘Not really. Crystal tells me she visits you sometimes after swimming. Is that right?’

  ‘Yes, she does sometimes. She pops in, we—’ She cut me short here.

  ‘I don’t like it, Sylvia. If I had my way she wouldn’t be coming again.’

  ‘I didn’t ask her to come. Millie, don’t be like this. Please. Can’t we just talk?’

  ‘No, Sylvia. Kamal and I don’t want anything to do with you. I’ve told Crystal I’m not happy about her seeing you, but she is seventeen and I can’t stop her if that’s what she wants to do. But I have explained to her that you are not to be trusted and that you have hurt me and her daddy and that you are not welcome in our family. That’s all I wanted to say. Goodbye.’

  Then she was gone. Realising I was still gripping the recipe in my hand, I let it go and it drifted slowly to the floor.

  Monday 21 March

  It had started to drizzle as I left the flat this morning and by the time I was at the bus stop the rain was coming down in rods, but I was determined to see Millie and try and sort things out. I had forgotten my umbrella and stood, dripping wet, in my duffel coat and jeans, waiting for the bus to appear out of the deluge. It was oddly warm on board and the windows were steamed up so it was hard to see when we arrived at Streatham Common. I had to lean over the man next to me and rub a clear patch in the window to make sure I hadn’t missed my stop. I got off into weak sunshine, the only clue to the torrential downpour being the mist rising off the pavement and the streams of murky water running into the drains. My damp coat clung heavily to me as I walked across the common towards the K&M Delicatessen. I know Kamal always has the day off on a Monday and I wanted to grab the opportunity to talk to Millie alone, apologise again, explain, try to get into some sort of dialogue with her that might move things forward for us. The thought of losing her love for ever is too horrible to contemplate. I’m not sure who I am without Millie. She acts as my foil, my centre of gravity, my emotional reference point. My sister, my friend. I just can’t let all that shared history disappear so easily. Not without a fight or without at least trying to find a way through.

  It was unbearable that she had sounded so cold on the phone – distant and removed as if I were a light-fingered customer she was barring from the shop. I had to speak to her. I made my way across the wet grass, holding onto the belief that surely there was still some way to connect with her and work this out. I had given her months to reflect, given her space, allowed them both time to talk it out and work through it together. The problem was, of course, that she had only had Kamal’s version of events to cogitate on – and God only knew what poisonous lies he had dropped into that sto
ry. I needed to see her, alone, and tell her my side of it, try to make her understand what happened and why.

  I stopped off at the minimart next to the station and bought a box of chocolates and a card from their measly selection that said Sorry with a picture of a huge-eyed puppy next to a ripped-up newspaper. I opened it next to the till to write a message inside but couldn’t think of how to word it, so I simply wrote I miss you, love Sylvia and put a couple of kisses. I realised how pathetic the card was on the short walk up the parade and shoved it in the bin just outside the deli. I took a moment to compose myself, and then pushed open the door to be met by a furious-looking Kamal standing right in front of me. He shook his head angrily and reached behind me to lock the door and turn the sign to closed before meeting my gaze head on. We stood glaring at each other, with the hum of the big fridge and the buzzing of a bluebottle in the window providing an edgy backing track to the inevitable confrontation that was brewing. The deli smelt stuffy, a spicy, meaty, herby combination that was making me nauseous.

  ‘She’s not here, she’s gone up into town for a lunch with the girls.’ Kamal finally broke the silence, answering my unasked question. I felt a sting of rejection as I realised which girls he probably meant – Emma, Shona (surely not Tig?) – and then I remembered how much I had loathed their company on our night out. The thought that Millie would be recounting our fall out to them was painful, though, and I took another silent body blow from that one.

  ‘What have you said about it, Kamal? Have you explained to her that it was only that one time and it was a mistake? That we didn’t mean to hurt her?’

  ‘It’s the lying, Sylvia.’ Kamal enunciated carefully, as if explaining the situation to a complete stranger. ‘It’s the lying for all these years that she can’t stand. She feels betrayed by you, be-trayed.’ He split the word into two distinct syllables to emphasise Millie’s distress.

  ‘By me?’ My voice rose in indignation. ‘What about you? You are her husband, Kamal. You made the first move. You were just as much to blame as I was.’

  ‘We weren’t even married then,’ he said in a sing-song voice, as though it was a secret winning card that I hadn’t realised he held. He did a horrible fake smile, even though his eyes were furious.

  ‘Does that matter?’ He had wrong-footed me, confused me. ‘Does Millie only blame me?’ Then, incredulous as the penny dropped, I asked, ‘Has she forgiven you?’

  ‘Yes, Sylvia, yes.’ He was beaming now, like a mad religious zealot who has been absolved of all sins by a magnanimous leader. ‘Yes, my wife has forgiven me.’

  A banging noise broke the moment as an elderly man in a turban tried repeatedly to open the door, pushing it with his shoulder, not having noticed, or believed, the closed sign. Kamal rushed past me and shouted his apologies through the door, holding up his hand and mouthing ‘five minutes’. The man tutted and ambled away and Kamal turned back to me, waving his arms at the door. ‘Look, look what you did. You are losing me business, woman. Now go away. I told you before. Go away and leave us alone.’

  ‘I need to see her, Kamal. I need to talk to her. Please tell her I came round.’ I was being dismissed and I felt utterly powerless.

  ‘She. Doesn’t. Want. To. Talk. To. You. Or. See. You. Ever. Again.’ He sounded it out as if explaining to a simpleton. ‘Now get out of my shop.’ He threw open the door and held it as I walked out into the street. Then he slammed it shut behind me, making the bell jingle long and loud as I felt the first spots of a fresh rainstorm fall onto my burning face.

  I wandered across the common towards the bus stop in a daze. Halfway across I started to feel faint and slumped down onto a bench. I looked down at the box of chocolates I had bought for Millie, which I still held in my hands, and realised how paltry such an offering was in the light of the enormity of the pain I had caused her. Her pain was exactly what I had tried so hard to avoid for so long. That was why I did what I did, and why I could never tell her any of it. I carried it all by myself, so that she could be happy, so that we could continue being sisters and best friends.

  Kamal carried it too, I saw that now, but it was different for him. Over the years he had altered it, edited it, made it all my fault, put himself in the position of Millie’s protector. I understood now the pure hatred he had for me. It wasn’t because I reminded him of what he had done wrong, but because in his revised version of events I was the evil party, the danger to Millie’s happiness. I opened the lid of the white-and-black box, lifted the ridged sheet of paper on the top, and smelt the intense sweetness of the contents. I picked up each chocolate in turn and examined its colour and shape, identifying them from the key on the side of the box. I knew which one was Millie’s favourite and I ate that first, in two small bites, the caramel and hazelnut making a delightful contrast to the milk chocolate shell. Then I ate the orange and coffee creams in one go each, just to get them out the way, before chewing thoughtfully on the toffees and hard centres. With only the fudge and dark chocolate ones left, there was no point saving them, I reasoned, so I finished the layer. The remaining layer went down with no order at all, the chocolate feeling rough and sickly in my mouth and down my throat so I thought I might gag, but I kept it down.

  The nausea I felt from the chocolate drew my mind unwillingly back to the last time I had had a confrontation with Kamal in the deli, eighteen years ago. He and Millie had only just bought the premises then, with her share of the money Uncle Clarence had left us. It was a complete state and needed total renovation, a task they had thrown themselves into with unbounded enthusiasm. That afternoon I’d known Millie was taking Mother to the opticians and that Kamal would be alone in the shop, decorating, and I needed to see him urgently. The unspoken agreement that we would forget our tryst had ever happened – which I would have been more than happy to go along with – had fallen apart for me in the worst way possible and I had to speak to him.

  I pushed open the door, narrowly avoiding knocking him off the ladder he was balanced on as he painted the ceiling. He had splotches of white paint all over his hair and overalls and a big smudge across his nose. The radio was on, loud, playing a rock anthem, and he was singing cheerfully along. He froze when he saw me and looked behind me for Millie. Seeing I was alone, he jumped off the ladder and eyed me warily.

  ‘What do you want?’ he asked, holding the paint brush in front of him like a weapon. I pressed my lips together and stared down at the planked floor, noticing two splotches of paint that had dripped down from the ceiling. If I didn’t open my mouth I didn’t have to say it; it would stay a secret inside me and I could hide it forever. ‘She’s not here,’ he said, narrowing his eyes.

  I forced myself to speak. ‘Kamal, I have to tell you something.’

  ‘What?’ He was shaking his head by now, as if he knew on some level what I was about to say and was already objecting to it.

  I put my hand on my belly and he looked fearfully from my hand to my face.

  ‘No! No way. No, no.’ He came towards me, waving his paint brush as if I were a wasp he was trying to get to fly back out of the window.

  ‘I’m sorry. I don’t know what to do.’

  He put his hand to his heart in a beseeching gesture. ‘It’s not mine. Why do you think it’s mine?’

  His words stung. ‘It is yours, Kamal. There hasn’t been anyone else. I’m sorry.’

  ‘I don’t believe you. I don’t want to talk to you!’ He put the brush down on the top of the ladder and walked behind the half-built counter, his hands pressed against his cheeks. He muttered in words I didn’t understand, kicking the back wall. He turned and pointed at me, his voice rising in panic and anger. ‘Don’t you dare tell Camilla! Don’t you dare ruin everything for us. Sort it out or I will tell her it was all your doing, that you are in love with me and that you hate her and are jealous of her. I will tell her you tricked me and that it isn’t mine anyway.’ Then he delivered the final blow. ‘You will lose her, Sylvia. She will never speak to you again. Ever.
’

  The nausea overtook me then and I ran out of the shop and vomited down the wall next to the window. When I stood up again, Kamal had shut the door and pulled down the blinds. I tried the handle but it was locked. A well-dressed businesswoman who was rushing past towards the station stopped and put her hand on my arm.

  ‘Are you all right?’ she asked, looking at me with concern. I brushed her hand away and stood up straight, pulling a tissue out of my pocket to wipe my mouth.

  ‘Yes, thank you.’ I gathered what little dignity I had left and walked purposefully in the other direction and round the corner. My legs were shaking so much that I had to sit down and I made it into a greasy little café where I dropped into a chair at the table next to the window. I sat there sipping milkless tea for hours, watching the world go by, everyone carrying on as usual. I felt safe in there, outside reality and away from the consequences of my actions. It was nearly closing time when I got up to leave. The proprietor had taken away my teacup and was now wiping down the table, whistling loudly.

  As I reached for my bag I saw a flash of bright green outside and knew it was Millie, returned from Mother’s at last, parking her distinctive old car on the road outside. My instinct was to run to her as she got out and locked the door. She didn’t even glance in the direction of the café; why would she? I often think that had she seen me then, had she come in and talked to me, everything might have turned out differently, but of course I can’t know that for sure. In all probability, I would have just ended up losing her even sooner. As she walked away from the car, all of her being was aiming for the deli round the corner where the love of her life was making it into their perfect dream. She was wearing a full-length leopard print faux fur coat over cut-off jeans and high gold platform boots. Her hair was in plaits and she had a huge smile on her face. She looked radiant and quirky and fabulous and so happy as she bounced off down the road towards Kamal and their future together. I drew myself back into the doorway of the café and let her pass unnoticed. How could I ruin this for her?