Letters From My Sister (4 page)

CHAPTER SEVEN

As I walk across the school playground I can see my mother standing apart from the cluster of parents waiting by the iron gates. Bells is with her in the pushchair. What’s she doing here? A mixture of panic and anger jabs at my chest. Mum never picks me up. Normally I go to Mr Stubbington’s corner shop to buy some sherbet dips and marshmallows and then walk home with Emma, my next-door neighbour. I go round to her house for tea because it’s nicer there. They light the fire and then we toast our marshmallows.

Mum approaches one of the other mothers and a young girl. She’s wearing her grubby apron with paint and oil stains down the front, her bright red shoes that look more like clogs, her auburn hair still pulled back in one of her cotton headscarves. All the other mothers wear long navy skirts and blouses with pearls, and their hair is curled and sits like perfect nests on top of their heads. Why does my mum have to look so different? Why did she have to bring Bells?

‘Katie, what is it?’ Emma asks impatiently. ‘I’m hungry. Come on.’

‘Mum’s here, with Bells.’ I pull her back.

‘So?’ Emma shrugs.

I haven’t told anyone in my class about Bells, they wouldn’t understand. Emma is the only one who has seen her from the beginning. Bells’ face looks so strange. They laugh at anything that looks weird. Mrs Higson, one of the mothers who stands at the gate, is so fat that everyone calls her Mrs Treestump-Legs. Has Mum seen me? I dart behind the boys’ outside loo, but can’t stay there for long because it smells. I almost choke. My mother’s voice is louder than any of the other mums, I think crossly. I’m sure she does it on purpose. ‘Go then,’ I tell Emma, waving her away with my hand. ‘Tell Mum I had to stay behind in class … say anything.’

I can hear people walking off, engines being turned on, prams being pushed, dogs barking. I wait with my fingers clipped firmly to my nose.

‘Hello,’ I overhear Mum saying, trying to be friendly. ‘Don’t look so worried, she won’t bite you. Her name’s Isabel. We call her Bells.’

Who’s Mum talking to? I poke my head round the wall. It’s Imogen, from the year below, with her mother.

‘What’s wrong with her?’ Imogen asks, unable to take her eyes away from the baby in the pram. ‘What’s that big hole in her face?’

‘Imogen, don’t be rude,’ the mother says, blushing. ‘It’s the inside that counts, isn’t it?’ she says to Mum.

Mum says nothing.

Imogen still stands rooted to the spot like a mannequin in a shop. Piss off, I want to shout. Her mother eventually pulls her away.

I wait until it is quiet and safe to come out. After roughly ten minutes I poke my head round the wall. Mum is bending down talking to Bells. I bolt sideways and then stroll forward as if I have come from the main school building. ‘I don’t care what anyone says, you’re my beautiful little girl, and your mother loves you, and we are having a lovely time, aren’t we?’

‘Hi, Mum. I had to tidy up the paints … and stuff,’ I falter.

Mum eyes me suspiciously. ‘Emma said you were showing your needlework to the headmistress.’

We walk back home, my head hung low.

‘Are your feet suddenly fascinating?’ Mum asks.

‘Nope.’

‘I had a call today,’ she says, as we walk on briskly, the pushchair rattling against the pavement. ‘From Mr Stubbington.’

My whole body freezes.

‘Katie, I’m ashamed of you. I leave you to walk home on your own because I think you’re old enough. Then I find you have been going into his shop and stealing from the charity pot. What has got into you lately?’ Mum turns to me, demanding an explanation.

Mr Stubbington has banned me from the shop for a week because he caught me trying to steal coins from the charity stocking. Mostly it’s full of one- and two-pence pieces but there are always those tantalizing silver and gold coins stuck in the netting of the toe. When Mr Stubbington turned away to put some apples into a brown paper bag one afternoon, I could not resist plunging my hand in to try and get a fifty-pence piece. ‘This money goes to Help the Aged,’ he rebuked me, wagging one finger furiously when he saw what I was doing.

I can offer no explanation. ‘Unless you promise to stop stealing, I will collect you every day,’ Mum threatens.

I don’t look up.

‘With Bells,’ she adds.

Does she know what I’m thinking? ‘I promise I won’t do it again, Mum.’ Two girls are walking towards us. They stop and gawk when they see Bells. ‘What’s wrong with it?’ one of them asks. I am focusing on a particular crack in the pavement. If I step on this line it will bring me bad luck.

‘“It” is my daughter, Isabel. She was born with a cleft lip and palate, and your staring doesn’t help,’ Mum says, pushing past them. I turn to look at them and they are still standing there staring with their mouths wide open. ‘What the hell is a cleft lip?’ one of them asks the other.

‘I’m sorry, Mum.’

‘It’s all right, but please don’t steal again, Katie. I have enough to do, just looking after this one.’

After that, Mum and I walk home quietly. ‘Hello, Bells,’ I say behind the closed door, stroking her hair. ‘I’ll give her her tea tonight,’ I tell Mum because I know she’s tired. I like mushing up Bells’s food. ‘How are you today? Have you had a good day?’ I push her into the kitchen. The guilt sits like a lump in my stomach.

CHAPTER EIGHT

‘I’ll meet you at the station,’ Sam suggests, cramming in a mouthful of toast and marmalade. ‘What time does Isabel’s train get in?’

‘Don’t worry, we’ll meet you back home.’ I don’t know why I think delaying the meeting is going to help. At some point the bomb will go off.

‘You know, I’m really looking forward to meeting her. I have to be honest, I was slightly dreading it to begin with, but now I’m quite curious to know what another Fletcher sister will be like.’

‘Sam, she’s very different.’ This is the perfect time to tell him. ‘I haven’t told you everything about her,’ I say. ‘When she was born …’

His mobile rings. ‘Hang on a sec,’ he says, answering the call. ‘Yep, leaving now, Maguire … No, I don’t agree … You’ve got to look outside the box.’ He hangs up.

‘Sam, can we talk?’ I ask as he puts the phone back in his pocket.

He pulls a face. ‘Can it wait till tonight? I’m running late.’ He plants a kiss on my lips, opens the front door. ‘What’s the plan for
ce soir
, by the way? Because I thought you, me, a few of the boys,’ he winks at me, ‘could take Isabel out for a drink tonight, get her acquainted with London night life, maybe go out dancing?’

I can’t take this any more, I should have told him straight away. I have a throbbing headache, a few more grey hairs, and if I don’t tell him now I’ll explode. ‘Sam, Isabel isn’t going to be what you think.’

‘What?’ He looks puzzled. ‘What do you mean?’

‘She was born with a cleft lip and palate. It’s quite a common thing,’ I add when I see his alarmed expression. ‘But there was an added complication because she was brain-damaged at birth. She lives in a community in Wales and it’s her summer holidays, that’s why she’s coming to stay.’ I feel as if I can breathe again. I wait for a reaction, anything will do.

Sam’s face shows little expression. ‘Bells? This was what you were talking to your dad about?’ He’s thinking out loud. ‘You let me believe she was your dog.’

‘I never actually said that. Bells … Isabel.’ I shrug my shoulders. ‘We call her Bells for short.’

‘Right.’ Slowly he scratches his head. ‘Right, I should have clicked. Well, that’s OK. No, hang on,’ his voice rises, ‘why didn’t you
tell
me any of this?’

‘I don’t know. I’m sorry. I thought you might hate the idea of her staying. And I have no choice; she has nowhere else to go. Mum and Dad are in France. My mother’s not well,’ I explain, hoping this will make him more sympathetic.

‘Well, it looks like I have no choice either.’ He frowns. ‘Next you’ll be telling me you have a brother in prison. Katie, I don’t know what to say. See you later.’

‘Don’t go.’ I grab his arm. ‘We need to talk.’

‘We had all week to talk, Kate, we had last night.’ He pulls his arm away before his mobile rings again. ‘Lakemore speaking,’ he says. ‘No, Maguire, that’s
not
what I said. Are we even on the same fucking page?’

I close the door after him. I feel terrible. Sick to my stomach. I feel so guilty. I have been lying to myself, to Sam, to Bells. Why am I such a dreadful person? Why am I such a coward?

*

‘I hope her train is early, touching wood,’ Eve says in her smoky French accent, tapping my desk.

For a moment I think about correcting her English but then I think I prefer it the way she says it. ‘Thanks, Eve, if you can lock up …’

‘Yes, yes, do not worry. I look forward to meeting your sister
demain
, I mean, tomorrow, of course.’ She unpins her honey-coloured hair. I have never seen such long hair, Botticelli would have loved to paint Eve. ‘My mother says it is like Rapunzel’s hair, tumbling down the tower,’ she laughs. ‘Where are you picking up Isabel?’ she asks, tying it back up into a bun and sticking in a long hairpin with a coloured glass kiwi fruit on the end of it.

‘Paddington.’

A customer comes in looking for a wedding outfit. ‘Can I leave you to it?’ I ask Eve.

‘Yes, yes, I see you tomorrow. Please, come this way,’ she says to the customer, leading her up the wooden steps to the second floor. ‘I think we have just the thing for you.’

*

As I drive to Paddington in Sam’s BMW, I make a mental list of the things I still need to do. I went to Sainsbury’s in my lunch hour to buy some fish and chips for tonight. When I agreed to have Bells I called home to get an idea of what I needed to plan.

‘In Wales they have a Mexican night on Monday,’ said Mum, ‘and they’re always given fish and chips on a Friday with mushy peas. I get her the tinned peas, disgusting, I know, but Bells likes them.’

‘OK, I’ll do that.’ If she ate, say, a baked potato on Monday, would that matter terribly? I thought to myself.

‘If you don’t have time to cook at lunch she enjoys the vegetable samosas that you can buy at the deli counter. On Wednesdays I think they have their Indian nights. Or is it their organic night?’ Her voice trailed off. ‘Anyway, darling, she loves cooking, so maybe you can do that together.’

As I listened, panic set in. I rarely cook at Sam’s. Most nights we eat out, and if we want to drink Sam pays for a cab home with his company card. ‘I don’t like cooking, I hate the mess,’ Sam says. ‘I remember Mum making stock for soup with leftover chicken bones. The smell of it in the morning,’ he said with a disgusted frown.

‘Bells likes her routine,’ Mum continued. ‘It’s very important to her. They eat lunch on the dot of twelve-thirty.’

‘I’ll do my best, Mum, but she has to fit in with what I’m doing too.’

Mum sniffed. ‘She likes her Coke too, but buy her the Diet Coca-Cola or her teeth will rot. And do take her to Sainsbury’s, it’s like an outing for her.’

‘Fine. Is that all?’ My patience was running out.

‘Yes, make sure she always carries her inhaler. Her asthma is much better but we can’t afford to take any risks.’ I thought she would ask me then if I still smoked, but she didn’t.

‘Of course, Mum.’

‘Thank you, Katie.’ Mum seemed tired, I could hear it in her voice.

‘Mum, nothing’s wrong, is it?’

‘Wrong? No! Just because we’re taking ourselves off on holiday does something have to be wrong? Don’t we deserve …’

‘Sorry, Mum, I didn’t mean it like that.’ I was twisting the phone cable, knotting it around my finger tightly.

‘I’m sorry too. I didn’t mean to snap.’

I let go of the cable. It had left a deep red indentation in my finger. ‘Promise?’

‘I promise.’

‘It’s about time you and Dad had a holiday. Have a lovely time.’

‘Katie?’

‘Yes?’

‘How are you?’

‘Fine. Good.’ Why is it that I always want Mum to ask me how I am, to be more interested in my life, but when she does ask, all I can do is reply in monosyllables? ‘Right, I’d better go and do all that shopping!’

‘I know she’ll have fun with you. It sets my mind at rest.’

‘We’ll have a great time. Make sure you come home rested. Love to Dad.’

‘Katie?’

‘Yes?’

She cleared her throat. ‘Do put sun cream on her face, her skin is so delicate.’

‘Don’t worry, I’ll look after her.’

‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘For helping out. It means a lot to your father and me.’

I sensed she wanted to say something else, so I waited for a moment, but she said nothing more. ‘’Bye, Mum.’

‘’Bye, my darling.’

*

The train pulls in to the platform. The doors open and passengers step out in a heaving mass. The men wear grey flannel suits and carry briefcases. Some of them have taken their jackets off in this heat and loosened their ties. A pregnant woman walks past in a blue cotton dress worn with Birkenstock sandals. Another girl totters past me in high heels, pulling a neat little designer suitcase on wheels.

‘I’m off the train, sweetpea,’ says a man on his mobile, ‘will be home in time for dinner.’

The crowds are filtering away, leaving a dull grey lifeless platform. Where is she? She can’t have missed the train. I can’t bear it. I walk down the platform looking into each carriage, but no sign of anyone. Then I hear a door open and see a small figure stepping out of the train. She’s wearing a denim jacket covered with lots of badges, a round embroidered hat that looks more like a doily over her head, and a red football scarf. She carries a large purple bag and a couple of plastic Sainsbury’s bags.

‘Bells!’ I say, quickening my pace towards her.

‘Hello, Katie. How’re you?’ I’m so relieved she has arrived that I almost hug her, but instead I take her luggage. ‘Well done! You made it,’ I say, as we walk away from the platform, past the guard at the entrance. There’s a heavy silence after the mobs of people have moved on.

*

We arrive back at Sam’s and I show Bells around the house. The kitchen is in the basement; on the ground floor is a large airy room that looks like a smart waiting room. In here are Sam’s new leather sofas and a fireplace controlled by slick silver controls; he has a dark mahogany bookcase filled with glossy hardback books that he hasn’t touched. He doesn’t read anything apart from the
FT
. On the second floor are the bedrooms, and a cosy room with suede beanbags and a large Stanley Spencer print. The bay window looks out on to the other rainbow-coloured houses along the crescent. If we’re in, we pretty much live in this room. Sam plays poker here. On the top floor is the steam room with the old-fashioned bath. ‘This is my favourite room, Bells,’ I tell her.

‘Sam rich?’ she asks.

‘Yes, he is. He works very hard.’ I take her back downstairs to her room, a large bedroom with a double bed, wardrobe, a long mirror whose frame I gilded and one small bedside table with an orange and white stained-glass lamp on it. More or less everything in this room is white – the shutters, the walls, the bedspread. The only other piece of colour is the rug with great big orange and red circles on it. Bells sits on the bed, looking around. It’s hard to know what she makes of Sam’s house.

‘What’s your room like in Wales?’ I ask, sitting down next to her.

‘I wish you would go and visit your sister sometimes,’ Mum says to me.

‘She’s a forgotten sister,’ Dad adds.

‘Not big like this,’ says Bells, waving her arm around. ‘Have small bed and television and lots of posters. Room looks out on garden and sea. In my plot of land, I grow carrots and potatoes. We grow strawberries this year too. You like strawberries, Katie?’ She sticks her thumbs up at me.

‘I do. We don’t have a garden here,’ I say apologetically. ‘I think you have Mum’s gardening skills. I’d kill everything! There would only be weeds in my plot of land.’ She doesn’t say anything.

‘Now, you’ve got your own TV in here, so that’s something, isn’t it?’ I point to the big silver machine with the wide screen in the corner of her room. ‘You can watch the tennis. Who do you think’s going to win Wimbledon this year then?’

‘Agassi.’

‘You cannot be serious,’ I say, imitating John McEnroe.

She looks at me with no hint of a smile. I’m going to have to try harder than a poor imitation of John McEnroe.

‘Shall we unpack?’ I open her zip bag and out comes a medley of junk and clothes. ‘Why have you got Mary Veronica’s jumper?’ I ask, showing Bells the nametag in the jumper, like the ones we used to have to sew on our school socks and PE kit. ‘Bells, you don’t have many summer clothes in here. Is this all you packed? Odd jumpers, a few T-shirts and a pair of dungarees? Oh, hang on, you have one frilly pink blouse here that says it belongs to Jessica Hall. I think I’m going to have to get you some new clothes,’ I say, talking to myself rather than to her. ‘You put all this away while I put the fish and chips on. Deal? You like chips on Fridays, don’t you?’

‘You have crinkle chips, like ones Mum makes?’

‘I’m going to make homemade ones, like Aunt Agnes’s.’

‘Oh,’ she acknowledges, and it’s hard to tell whether she’s pleased or not. ‘How’s Aunt Agnes?’

‘I think she’s fine.’

‘Uncle Roger? He died. Poor Uncle Roger.’

‘I know. Poor Aunt Agnes too. I think she gets lonely.’

‘Poor Aunt Agnes. How’s Mum?’

‘Well, you know she’s on holiday.’

‘How’s Dad?’

‘He’s on holiday too. Aren’t they lucky? They’re in France.’

‘In France, that’s right. How’s Granny Norfolk?’

Our mother’s mother, Granny, lives in Norfolk, hence the name. I don’t know how she is, I haven’t spoken to her in months. ‘Look, you’ve got your own music system,’ I tell her, trying to stop the tirade of questions about the Fletcher family.

I can hear my voice, but it’s not me. I can’t seem to stop talking to her as if she were ten years old.

‘Anyway, you’ll meet Sam soon,’ I say.

Sam. I still feel nervous about him coming home. When I tried to call him earlier, his secretary said he was either ‘on the other line’ or ‘in a meeting’. He has her well trained. ‘He’s really looking forward to meeting you. You’ll be good, won’t you?’ I can’t help adding. ‘No dramas, right. We’re going to have a really grand two weeks, aren’t we?’

‘No dramas,’ she repeats.

‘Good. Come down when you’re ready.’

*

The chips are frying and I’m on to my second vodka. These last few days I’ve been counting down the minutes until I can have my first drink in the evening. Let’s forget the cup of tea and go straight to the hard stuff. First hurdle is over. Bells is here, we are getting on fine, I think. The second major hurdle is Bells meeting Sam.

Stevie Wonder starts to blast out of Bells’s bedroom. I run upstairs and open the door. Bells is on the bed, pinning up a poster of David Beckham, his diamond earrings sparkling.

The lovely white room is now covered in football badges and stickers with a Beatles poster stuck to the door,
SEX, DRUGS AND ROCK ’N’ ROLL
written in big black letters at the bottom. It reminds me of Bells’s bedroom in our parents’ home. She had the master bedroom with the sink that I was envious of, and wallpaper with flowery borders. Bells didn’t like the wallpaper, though, so she drew pictures of animals and pinned up posters of her favourite pop singers, Stevie Wonder, David Bowie and the Beatles. I remember she had a picture of Bob Marley on the wall too, smoking a joint. Mum did not mind her ruining the wallpaper. She wasn’t strict in that sense. She let us get on with it half the time.