Authors: Sarah Crossan
Apple and Rain (18 page)
I’m not sure Mum’s right. Rain’s been devoted to her doll today – taking her everywhere, even to the toilet. She’s been announcing every cough or hiccup Jenny makes.
‘I know this might seem a big ask, Apple, but would you consider looking after her while I go to a few more auditions in London? I really think I could get some TV work if I persevere. You could help me out for a few days until I line up a babysitter? I don’t really have a lot of disposable cash right now.’
Mum doesn’t have to convince me. I’ll do anything to help her become a famous actress. In any case, I’d rather stay at home and watch films than spend all day avoiding Donna, Pilar and Egan.
‘I can take care of her,’ I say.
Mum hugs me so tight she almost breaks my neck. ‘Really? Oh, Apple, you’re the best daughter
ever
.’
Rain looks up then quickly gets back to cutting out pictures. But the brief, sad glance is unmistakable: it’s the look of a daughter desperate for her mum to love her the best.
It takes Mum longer to find a babysitter for Rain than she expected. A few days off school turns into a week. A week turns into a fortnight. I worry that the school might send over a social worker to make sure Mum hasn’t tied me to a radiator, but no one shows up. Rain and I are free to do as we please. Occasionally we make fairy cakes or biscuits and some of them turn out really nice, which makes me think of Nana. Mostly we just read and watch films.
One afternoon I read the Emily Dickinson book from the library, pages and pages of poems without stopping, and without really knowing what all of them mean. But it doesn’t matter. I like the big dashes the poet uses and the random capital letters; it makes me think that if someone famous can beat up punctuation and get away with it, there’s hope for me.
Then I read a line that makes me stop.
Tell all the Truth but tell it slant –
I think about the homework I’ve been doing for English and what rubbish it’s all been. I scan the rest of the poem and at the end are more lines like that:
The Truth must dazzle gradually
Or every man be blind
–
I think Dickinson is saying that you should tell the truth but that there’s no need to be direct – you can show it from different angles so it won’t be so shocking or hard to bear. Mr Gaydon would know the correct meaning of the poem and I start wishing I were in school so I could ask him. But if I did ask him, he would only make me work it out myself anyway, and he’d find something positive to say about whatever answer I came up with.
Then I remember the exercise book he gave me especially for my poems and pull it from my school bag. I run my hand over the smooth grey cover. A new exercise book always feels so full of promise, even when it’s for a subject you don’t like. I use a sharp pencil to write my name on the cover and open it at the first, clean page. I have no idea what to write, but that doesn’t seem to matter. Words, dashes and capital letters come out of nowhere:
Under the promise of Love
We give away ourselves –
And in the morning wonder
What’s left lying on the shelves
Of rescued Spirit’s end –
Under the shape of Love
We idle for the Future –
So bright and so surprising
Where nothing can be bitter
Or turned into a Better.
I like the rhythm of the words and shape of the poem and though I’m not sure exactly what it is I’m saying, I keep writing.
I write and write and write and only stop when Rain looks up from her own book and says, ‘Time for beans on toast.’
‘Definitely,’ I say. I shut the exercise book and head to the kitchen.
On my second Friday in a row off school, after Rain and I have raided the library and watched two animated films and three episodes of
Doctor Who
, we stroll down to the seafront. Seagulls nip at old plastic bottles left behind on the beach. A man with a metal detector scours the sand for treasure. It’s drizzling as usual.
‘Jenny’s getting wet. Do you think she could get pneumonia?’ Rain asks.
‘No,’ I say.
The man with the metal detector fingers the sand then pops something into his pocket.
‘What about bronchitis?’ Rain asks.
‘Jenny’s fine,’ I say. Every few hours Rain thinks of a new ailment for Jenny. Sometimes she gets so worked up, it’s a struggle to stop her calling an ambulance.
‘Did you know that in Victorian times, one in three children died before they reached five years old?’ Rain asks.
‘I didn’t know that,’ I say.
‘It’s true. I read about it in one of the library books. What do you think it is nowadays? One in ten?’
I sigh. Sometimes being Rain’s babysitter is tiring. ‘I think I can say with one hundred per cent certainty that Jenny is not at risk of catching anything life-threatening.’ I don’t add that being plastic makes it impossible.
‘But . . .’
‘Why don’t we get some chips?’ I say.
In the chippy I smother my portion with salt and vinegar.
Rain sticks out her tongue. ‘That’s totally gross.’
‘It’s delicious,’ I tell her.
‘I want mine plain.’
‘Suit yourself.’
We take our open chips to the promenade and sit on a damp bench. Rain doesn’t make conversation and neither do I. We watch the waves lap the sand, the gulls squawk, and a pair of cocker spaniels bark at the man’s metal detector. I throw a handful of chips into the sky. A few seagulls swoop in to catch them. Rain pretend-screams.
‘Can I sit with you?’ It’s Del Holloway. He’s standing behind us with his own bag of open chips.
‘It’s you,’ I say. He’s wearing a black shirt and tie and a grey trilby. ‘Are you being home-schooled again?’
He puts a very large chip into his mouth. ‘Nope. Mum’s great-aunt Lulu died, so we were at the funeral. Mum let me have the whole day off on account of my grief.’ He puts his hand over his heart and whines. ‘Can I sit down?’
‘If you want,’ I say. I shift sideways, closer to Rain. ‘So, you weren’t close to your aunt Lulu?’
‘My
mum’s
great-
aunt Lulu. No, never met her,’ he says.
‘I’m sorry anyway,’ I say.
‘So, I haven’t seen you at school. Did you transfer somewhere else?’
‘Kind of,’ I say.
‘Where are you now?’
I don’t know why it’s any of his business, but I tell him anyway. I can’t help telling Del things. ‘My mum needed help with something.’
‘I miss you,’ he says quickly. He stuffs in a few more chips.
‘What are you on about?’
‘Nothing. Just talking,’ Del says. He leans across me and shakes Rain’s hand. ‘I’m Del,’ he says.
‘I’m Rain,’ she says.
‘Rain is my long-lost sister – she’s from America, hence the weird accent,’ I tell him. ‘And Rain, this is Del, my old neighbour and general nosy parker.’
Rain pretends to feed her doll a chip. ‘Is Jenny allowed chips?’ I ask, forgetting for a second that Jenny isn’t real.
‘She’s fine,’ Rain says. She props Jenny up on one knee and jiggles her. ‘This is Jenny. She’s almost seven months old. A bit of a handful.’
He nods like it’s completely normal to act as though a doll’s a real person. He even makes a face at Jenny who stares back at him under her nylon eyelashes.
The rain comes down harder. None of us moves from the bench. We watch the gulls and cocker spaniels.
‘Is Pilar one of the reasons you won’t come back to school?’ Del asks.
‘I don’t know what you mean,’ I say.
‘Well, she told me you used to be friends.’
‘So, you and Pilar are having heart-to-hearts? Is she your girlfriend?’
He raises one eyebrow. ‘I don’t think so. Do you?’ He leans across me again and taps Rain’s knee. ‘You and the baby wanna play the fruities?’
Rain swats him away. ‘A fruit what?’
‘Seriously, don’t say you’ve never played a fruit machine. America’s so backward.’
‘Have
you
?’ I ask him. He wouldn’t pass for fourteen, let alone eighteen.
‘’Course I have. I’m a master gambler. Last year I won thirty thousand pounds on the gaming tables. Took ten grand off a professional boxer at poker. He threatened to beat me up but then he saw my muscles.’ Del raises his fists. ‘You think I’m full of it, but I’m completely serious. Now come on.’
I don’t want to follow Del. I always get the feeling when I’m with him that he sees me too clearly. Not that he knows stuff
about
me, more that he just knows me – that he sees me more that I want him to. But before I can object, Rain’s gambolling behind him towards the promenade arcades. I’ve no option but to get up and slog after them.
All arcades are the same: claw cranes suspended over stuffed, lime-green frogs and dance machines booming out beats. Everything invites us to
WIN WIN WIN
. The binging and jangling is deafening.
But Rain is mesmerised. And she doesn’t seem to be worrying too much about how the noise might affect Jenny. I could mention it and we could go home, but if she’s got her toe in the real world, I won’t spoil it.
‘Look!’ Rain says. She stops by a machine with coins teetering along two ledges. It looks like it will throw the money out if it only gets a tiny nudge. ‘Let’s play this one,’ she says.
Del presses his nose against the machine. The top ledge slides forwards and backwards. ‘It’s not even close to coughing up,’ he says.
‘The money’s ready to drop,’ Rain says.
‘Believe me,’ he says.
Rain doesn’t argue. We continue along the promenade until we reach a run-down arcade called Captain Flame’s Games. It’s got an eight-foot peeling pirate standing guard outside. The parrot on his shoulder spins and screeches
‘Who’s a clever boy then!’
over and over and over.
At the back of the arcade is a row of ancient-looking fruit machines. Del stops. Four men prod and smash the buttons. The machines whistle and moan. Five fruit machines are free. Del doesn’t make a move for any of them. ‘Let’s pretend to play something else for now,’ he says. He points at a grabber filled with cheap pink teddies of different sizes and puts twenty pence into the slot. ‘Don’t let me down!’ he tells Rain, standing aside and offering her the lever.
The mechanical hand judders. Rain smiles. ‘Can someone hold Jenny?’
Del grabs the doll and kisses it. ‘Come here to Uncle Del, petal. Now, no crying for goodness’ sake. Momma’s right there.’
I give him a ‘what-the-hell-are-you-on-about’ look. He pats the doll and squashes his face against the glass to gaze in at the teddies.
Rain holds the lever. She watches the hand glide along the metal rail. Once she has it in position, she yanks the lever towards her and the mechanical hand plunges into the pink pool of fuzz. I don’t expect her to win anything, no one ever does, but a huge teddy dangles from the hand and within a couple of seconds is sliding out of the machine.
‘I won!’ Rain says.
Del looks as surprised as me. ‘Crikey O’Reilly!’ he says.
He grabs the teddy and lifts it in the air like a trophy. ‘Winners!’ he shouts. ‘Question is, who does it belong to? See, technically you won it. But it was my money. Apple, what do you think? Mediate like this is a divorce settlement or something.’
Rain’s eyes are wide and anxious. She can’t tell that Del is joking.
‘Don’t torture her,’ I say.
‘But pink’s my favourite colour.’ He winks at Rain. ‘All right, you have it. But don’t let him bully Jenny. He looks like a brute.’
‘Thanks,’ Rain says. She squeezes the teddy for a second. Then she sees Jenny in Del’s arm and reaches for her too. ‘Jenny can have him,’ she says.
Del glances over at the fruit machines. One of the men is walking away. ‘No payout,’ Del says. ‘Perfect. Let’s play.’
