Apple and Rain (8 page)

‘I don’t know if she is. Deep down I think she’s nice,’ I say. Pilar’s been my friend since I started secondary school. It’s the first time she’s been mean. And she hasn’t even really been mean; she’s just leaving me out. I’m not sure whether or not that counts. ‘Donna Taylor’s got loads of friends. Why does she have to have mine too?’

‘Donna Taylor? What a name. She sounds like a stripper.’

‘She’s really popular,’ I say.

Mum smiles. ‘Strippers usually are. Anyway, so what? Anyone can be popular.’

‘I can’t,’ I say.

‘Really?’ Mum says. She tries to cover up a smile with her fingers, but I think she might be plotting something.

After Mum and I have gone to the bank, dropped off some dry-cleaning and stopped for an ice cream, Mum takes me home. She doesn’t come in with me. ‘I’m late. I’ve got to scoot off. But I’ll see you soon, OK,’ she says.

Nana is in the hall, lacing up her shoes. She does a double take when she sees me. Derry bounds out of the kitchen and noses my school bag. I ruffle his fur and his tail wags.

‘You got out early? Why didn’t you call? I don’t like you taking the bus alone,’ Nana says.

I could make something up, but I’ve never lied to Nana. Even the thought of it makes my neck go blotchy. ‘I fell out with Pilar,’ I say.

‘What does that mean?’

‘I told the receptionist I was sick. Mum picked me up.’

Nana opens the front door, but Mum is gone. She keeps her back to me and hangs up her coat on the hallstand along with her red headscarf. ‘This is not acceptable, Apple.’

‘What isn’t acceptable?’

Nana turns around. ‘The school shouldn’t have let you leave. I’m your legal guardian.’

‘But she’s my
mum
,’ I say.

‘And she believed that a tiff with Pilar was a good reason to pull you out of lessons?’

‘Pilar’s ditched me, Nana. I’ve got no one now. Donna Taylor took her away.’

Nana rolls her eyes. ‘Can’t you all be friends together?’

‘No, we can’t. That isn’t how it works. Donna’s leaving me out on purpose. She doesn’t like me.’

Nana puts her hands on her hips. ‘Why wouldn’t she like you?’

‘Because I’m never allowed to do anything. Why wouldn’t you let me go with her and her friends after school? Now she’s stolen Pilar.’

‘So tell Pilar you’re upset.’

I pull off my school bag and toss it at the bottom of the stairs. ‘You aren’t listening!’ I shout. ‘You never
listen
. All you do is tell me I’m wrong and silly and young.’

Derry’s tail stops wagging. He slides back into the kitchen. He’s such a wimp.

‘Apple, you know we don’t shout like that in this house.’

But I can’t stop myself. ‘We don’t shout and we don’t talk. You just tell me what to do all the time!’

‘I’m trying to take care of you.’

‘I’m thirteen and you think I’m eight. It’s your fault I have no friends.’

Nana freezes. ‘What’s happened? You aren’t behaving like yourself.’ She doesn’t even try to think about what she’s done. She can’t imagine she’s wrong. It has to be me. It always has to be my fault, just like it’s always been Mum’s fault for leaving.

I push my shoulders back and swallow. I feel brave and scared all at once. ‘I don’t want to live here any more,’ I tell her.

‘What did you say?’ Nana glares at me. I might as well have slapped her.

I turn and head up to my bedroom.

‘Apple, get back down here,’ Nana calls after me.

‘I’m going to live with Mum,’ I say, and shut my bedroom door.

16

Dad is in Nana’s kitchen the next morning. ‘I’m missing work to be here,’ he says.

I make myself a bowl of cornflakes while Dad tries to convince me to stay with Nana. He says things like, ‘Your mother isn’t what she seems,’ and, ‘I don’t want you to look back and regret that you did this.’ And when I tell him that Mum’s really trying, Dad goes quiet and says, ‘Well, it’s about bloody well time.’

Even though Dad doesn’t want me to live with Mum, he never says I should live with him. Trish wouldn’t allow it. Anyway, I’d rather live under a bridge with diseased rats than in a house with Trish – but he could at least offer.

Then Nana and Derry are back from their walk, and Mum is at the front door, and I am dragging my suitcase down the path. It is all happening so quickly. Quicker than I imagined.

Derry sits on the front step. He is confused. I kneel in front of him and put my face into his neck. ‘Take care of Nana,’ I tell him. ‘Don’t forget to bark at strangers, OK?’

Derry looks at Nana. She is standing with her hands in the pocket of her apron. She is watching Mum pack up the car. She is not looking at me.

I know she’s sad. So am I. But Nana’s solution for everything is either to feed me or to get angry.

‘Do you have everything you need?’ she asks in a croaky whisper. Her eyes are hard.

‘I think so. But I can come back and get anything I forgot, can’t I?’ I ask. My room is still packed with all my stuff because Mum doesn’t have a lot of space in her new flat. I’ve left my posters on the walls and my drawers full of summer clothes.

Nana nods. ‘You know you can come back any time, Apple.’

Mum taps the face of her watch and waves for me to get into the car.

I want to tell Nana how grateful I am that she let me live with her all my life. I want to tell her that, even though I’ve never said it out loud before, I really do love her. But when I try to speak, I end up coughing. Nana pats me on the back.

‘Go on now, if that’s what you’re doing,’ she says.

Derry rests his head between Nana’s feet. His big brown eyes are watery.

‘See you soon, Derry,’ I say.

I quickly turn around and rush towards Mum. If I linger, I might change my mind. And Nana doesn’t wait at the door. She doesn’t wave me off like she usually does when visitors leave.

She shuts the door gently and is gone.

17

Mum pushes open the front entrance and kicks junk mail off the mat. Two doors separate the house into flats. Mum opens a red one with scuff marks along the bottom and drags my suitcase up a flight of narrow stairs.

‘Here we are. Come on,’ she says. She huffs as she plonks the case by the stairwell. She sweeps her arms wide. ‘Home sweet home,’ she says. We are in a large sitting room with a small kitchen tucked into one corner. Piles of boxes, like giant building blocks, are scattered around the room and the couch, the only piece of furniture in the room apart from a tiny dining table, is covered in clothes.

Dust dances by the open windows. The room smells of burnt toast.

‘What do you think?’ Mum asks.

‘It’s got loads of potential,’ I say as cheerfully as I can. It doesn’t look like a home yet, but she’s just moved in.

Mum smiles. ‘Exactly. Loads of potential. We’ll get some pictures up and maybe paint the walls. It’ll be unrecognisable. I love the open-plan living, don’t you? Makes me feel like I’m still in the States.’

Mum goes to the kitchen. She rummages in a box and pulls out a saucepan. She fills it with water and places it on the hob.

‘Let’s have coffee.’

‘OK,’ I say.

‘But I want to give you the full tour first. I think you’ll be surprised,’ she says. She opens her handbag, which is slung across her body, and takes out a packet of cigarettes. She pinches one between her lips and lights the end, drawing in deeply and exhaling the smoke through her nose.

‘You smoke,’ I say.

Mum pulls the cigarette out of her mouth and looks at it. ‘I know. Disgusting. I meant to give up in the New Year but it never happened.’ She laughs and inhales again. She goes to the open window and blows the smoke outside. She swats the air with her free hand. When she’s finished her cigarette, I follow her to the hallway.

She pushes open the first door, revealing a pink bathroom. The side of the bath and sink are crowded with bottles of shampoo, soaps and make-up. ‘Little girls’ room,’ Mum says. ‘And this is my room.’ She opens the door opposite. ‘Thinking of painting it a duck-egg blue. And I like butterflies, so maybe one side of wallpaper. What do you think?’

‘That would be nice,’ I say.

Mum pulls her bedroom door behind her. ‘A bit of a mess, but I’ll get there.’

At the end of the hallway is one more door. Mum is beaming. ‘And this is
your
room.’ She turns the handle.

I step inside and almost screech with excitement. Instead of a single bed in the corner and a large sensible desk, like at Nana’s, Mum’s bought a yellow bunk bed and two green beanbags. ‘It’s so fun!’ I say.

‘Phew! I was worried you’d think it looked childish. But I thought better a bunk bed than two separate beds squished in.’

‘Huh?’

I feel something coming. I don’t want to hear it. I don’t want to know. I put my hands in my pockets and make fists.

‘Rain? Rain, are you awake, my darling?’ Mum says.

The covers on the top bunk shift, and from beneath them a head appears. A red head with frayed plaits, curly at the ends.

The tired eyes of a kid.

A girl.

She rubs her eyes with her fists.

‘This is Apple. I was telling you all about her, remember? You’re going to be best friends, I know it,’ Mum says.

The girl sits up and blinks. She finds a pair of large round glasses under her pillow and slips them over her nose. ‘Hi,’ Rain says.

I don’t reply. I’m just about managing to stay on my feet.

‘Apple?’ Mum says. Her voice sounds like it’s coming from another room. From behind a wall. ‘Apple?’

‘Yes?’ I look at her, fixing my mouth into a jagged smile.

‘This is Rain. She’s your sister. Aren’t you going to say hello?’

18

‘I wish it would
snow
,’ I said one winter, when there was nothing but hailstones and drizzle. Nana looked up from the scones she was baking. Her forehead was powdered with flour. She said, ‘Snow? No thank you. Be careful what you wish for, Apple!’ As though anything bad could come from snowmen and a bit of sledging down Cliff Gardens.

And another time I was brushing my hair, dragging out the knots and complaining. ‘I wish I had straight hair,’ I said. Nana looked up from her sewing and said, ‘Goodness me, what for? Be careful what you wish for, Apple!’ As though anything bad could come from sleek locks.

And last spring, when it was raining outside and I was playing myself at Monopoly, I said, ‘I wish I had a sister.’ Nana held her biscuit, undunked, over a teacup. She said, ‘Oh, Apple, please,
please
be careful what you wish for.’ As though anything bad could come from a ready-made friend.

All those times I was thinking that Nana was wrong, wrong, wrong.

But she was right.

I was the wrong, wrong, wrong one to wish for things I didn’t have.

I should have been careful about my wishes.

And I should never have wished for a sister.

19

Rain is sitting on the couch, cradling a doll and shushing it. Mum is making coffee.

‘So how old are you?’ I ask Rain.

‘Ten,’ Rain says. She kisses the doll’s forehead. ‘And Jenny’s six months.’ Rain holds the doll close. ‘I know you’re hungry, sweetie-pie. I’ll get you milk in a minute.’

I can’t help staring. Rain isn’t behaving like she’s playing; she’s acting like the doll is real.

Mum hands me a mug. ‘I don’t know how you take it, so I gave you one sugar.’ She sounds anxious, as though not knowing how I take my coffee is her biggest concern. As though she hasn’t got other things to explain.

‘I’ve never had coffee before,’ I admit. It’s the colour of strong tea. I take a sip. It’s bitter and thick – like clay. Mum sits on the floor under the window, blowing into her own coffee mug.

‘Oh my goodness, is that smell what I think it is? Have you done a poop?’ Rain laughs. ‘Come on, honey, let’s change you.’ She leaves the room and shouts from the hallway in her nasal, American accent. ‘We gotta buy more diapers,
Mom
!’

Mum unbuttons her shirt at the wrists and rolls up her sleeves. ‘The doll is a phase. The doctor told me that she’s completely normal,’ Mum says.

‘Oh. OK.’

Mum lights a fresh cigarette. ‘It’s best if you play along. No good upsetting her by telling her Jenny isn’t real.’

‘OK,’ I say again. But Rain’s doll isn’t the thing that’s knocked me sideways. ‘When you said you had a big surprise for me, I thought maybe you had a boyfriend or something,’ I tell Mum.

‘Boyfriend? No, I prefer to keep the men moving through.’ She laughs, alternating between the coffee and the cigarette.

‘It’s just that once Dad got Trish . . .’

But I don’t have to finish the sentence. I see in Mum’s eyes that she understands. ‘He changed,’ she says. ‘I could see it when I met him. So full of his own importance. And uptight.
Very
uptight.’