Me Myself Milly (2 page)

Carmel stood up and Lily uncurled her legs and launched herself from the chair and from the room. She didn’t look at me.

‘I’ll talk to some people and get back to you,’ said Carmel. ‘If you’re sure it’s what you want, I expect we can sort something out.’

‘I’m sure,’ I told her, though I wasn’t. Not really. It was the first major decision I’d ever made on my own. Then Mum came back in and said she knew a really good
counsellor who I could go to, so Carmel didn’t need to worry about that any more. I could tell Carmel wasn’t too happy about it. Perhaps she thought, like I did, that Mum was fobbing
her off and there wasn’t really any counsellor, but Mum was using her ‘no nonsense’ voice so Carmel didn’t argue the point. But it turned out Mum was serious, which is how I
ended up seeing Ted. And now he’s given me a journal to write and although I don’t want to do it, at least it’s given me something new to think about.

I’ve spent the last however many weeks trying not to think, which of course is impossible. The more you try not to think about something, the more you end up thinking about it. The
Incident has become like a film in my head, on a never-ending reel, that plays itself over and over. Sometimes it plays what actually happened and sometimes it plays what might have happened
– what could have happened. I let that one play on, the one where we all come home laughing and happy. The one where nothing has changed us for ever.

My Journal

by myself, Milly Pond

This is my journal.

I don’t know what I’m going to write yet, probably just anything – except what happened. I had decided I wasn’t going to bother and I’d pretend I was doing it if
Ted asked, but then I made the mistake of telling Mum about it.

When I got home from Ted’s this afternoon, Mum was withdrawn and I could see she was feeling really down. In an attempt to distract her, I got the notebook out of my bag and told her
about Ted’s idea. It didn’t cheer her up.

‘What?’ I said when she tutted loudly.

‘I’m sure Ted means well . . . but really . . . he can’t know much about fourteen-year-old girls if he thinks they’re capable of keeping up a journal.’

I was offended. Why shouldn’t I be capable? She might have been right if it was Lily she was talking to. I doubt she’d be able to do it; she’s got the concentration span of
a butterfly at the best of times.

I’m not going to tell Lily about the journal, she’ll probably be even ruder than Mum and tell me to ‘get a life’ or something. Then she’ll read it when I’m
not here. I’ll have to think of somewhere to hide it where Lily would never look. I can’t put it under the mattress because that’s too obvious. I think I’ll keep it in the
doll’s house because Lily never goes near it. It sits on the chest of drawers between our beds and Lily wanted to get rid of it last year. She said it was embarrassing, that we were too old
to still have a doll’s house – but I wouldn’t let her.

At first I couldn’t think of anything to write. All those blank pages freaked me out so I did a sort of title page, like they have in books. ‘The Journal of Milly Pond’
sounded too formal so, in the end, I just put ‘My Journal’ right in the middle. Then, for some reason I added ‘by myself’. I don’t know why I wrote that and I wanted
to cross it out but that would have made a mess so I put my name, Milly Pond, just to make things absolutely clear. Now it looks like something a six year old would have done. Anyhow, I’d
filled a whole page, which felt good until I turned over and there was another blank page.

God! Who’d have thought writing could be so difficult? I don’t know how Mum does it.

I must have sat here chewing on my biro for about half an hour before I decided that it doesn’t really matter what I write because I don’t think Ted wants to read it; I think he
just wants me to write it. I’d better check though, next time I see him, just in case.

All that got me wondering about Mum. She writes and illustrates books for a living. I wonder if she panics when she sees a blank page. I doubt it; she probably sees it as an opportunity.
I’ll try and think like that from now on.

Today, when I got home from Ted’s, I stood on the pavement outside our house for a bit. I love the pavement. It’s not plain grey like most pavements, it’s
made of big slabs which change colour depending on the weather, from pink to white to yellow and sometimes all three. And it’s wide – wide enough for two ladies in huge, hooped skirts
to pass without touching.

It rained earlier so the slabs are a mixture of yellow and pink. I half shut my eyes and tried to see the people who lived on the street when the houses were built. I have a pretty good idea of
what the ladies would be wearing because I did a project on Georgian fashion last year, so I can imagine them parading up and down the street in their silks and satins on the arm of a gentleman. I
tried to block out the cars that are parked all the way along the road and replace them, in my mind, with carriages and horses. That’s the thing about living in a ‘Historical
City’: the past is never very far away.

Lily hates it. She thinks people should move on and forget about the past.

Maybe she’s right, I think, opening my eyes and facing the present. Our house is in a long row of identical sandstone houses that sweep down the street. If they didn’t all have
different coloured front doors I’d have difficulty finding the right one. Ours has got a black front door. It used to be red, which was much easier to spot, but the paint was flaking and the
red had faded, so last year David painted it shiny black and fixed a new brass knocker right in the middle. He also painted the railings shiny black so now it looks really smart.

He offered to paint the grubby white door of our basement flat as well, but Mum said not to bother. I think he was a bit cross about that. Luckily, you can only see our front door if you stand
against the railings and peer down.

I had my hand on the gate at the top of the steps that lead down to the basement area. I could see straight into our kitchen sink which was still piled up with the dishes from breakfast. Instead
of going down I turned left, up the two shallow steps to the shiny, black front door. I do have a key to this door, but today it was unlocked so I let myself in. I was hoping Jeanie would be in; I
couldn’t face Mum just yet.

Jeanie was in the kitchen, which is at the back of the house. I could hear her humming along to the radio and emptying the dishwasher. Sometimes these days I can’t believe this is the same
house we’ve lived in since we were born. Everything has changed so much, and not just the black front door. Everything is shiny and new: the polished wood floors, the newly painted walls, the
furniture, paintings – everything. I went past the door under the stairs which leads down to our basement flat. Even that’s been painted.

Jeanie jumped when I entered the kitchen.

‘Oh, Milly!’ she said. There was a fraction of a pause, a heartbeat, before she said ‘Hello’. I suddenly felt like I shouldn’t be up here, at least not without an
invitation. The thought made me want to cry. I could feel tears welling up. I must have gone red with the effort of trying not to let them fall.

‘I’m just making coffee, would you like some?’ Jeanie can always be relied on to say the right thing. Ever since The Incident she’s never talked to me in that
‘careful’ way some adults do. She treats me like a normal person. So I sat at the breakfast bar and pretended to be a normal person for a bit.

Eventually, of course, I had to go downstairs. Opening the door to the basement and stepping through is like journeying to a different planet. The light which floods the upstairs, now all the
walls are painted white, disappears beyond our door.

I descended the stairs carefully. It smells spicy with a hint of incense downstairs. It’s not unpleasant and it goes with the decor which is all rich, earthy colours. There are hangings
and paintings on the walls: Indian embroideries and dramatic stormy landscapes.

Every surface is covered with stuff. Stones are piled on shelves like pebbles on a beach after a storm. Of course every stone holds a special significance: a day out at the coast or an afternoon
spent paddling in the river. There’s a jam jar stuffed with feathers. Lily went through a phase of thinking that each time she found a feather on the ground it meant that an angel had been
watching over her. There’s a beautiful Victorian teacup with a penis-shaped cactus planted in it. Mum found them both at a car boot sale one Sunday morning. She said she’d love to have
seen the faces of the Victorian ladies if they’d seen the phallic cactus sticking up out of their fine china.

It’s like stepping back into the past because the whole house used to be like this, full of colour and throbbing with life. Not that it’s exactly throbbing with life down here any
more.

It was very quiet. I knew immediately that Lily wasn’t here; it must be a twin thing. I don’t know where she goes when she’s not here and I’m not going to ask her.

I wondered if Mum was asleep. I was about to sneak into my room so I could carry on with my journal when I heard Mum call out.

‘Lily?’

She was in the sitting room so I made my way in cautiously. She was curled up in the armchair wrapped in a blanket.

‘It’s me, Mum. Milly.’

Her eyes were unfocused. ‘Oh, Milly. Yes, of course . . . sorry, I’ve just woken up.’ She made an effort to smile. I noticed the bottle of pills on the side table, and
surreptitiously checked to see that it wasn’t emptier than it should be.

‘You’re only supposed to take these at night, Mum,’ I said, picking up the bottle to get a closer look. It was okay, there was still over half left. ‘I’ll make you
a cup of tea.’

‘Milly?’

‘Yes?’ I stopped in the doorway, not wanting to face the mess in the kitchen but not wanting to talk to Mum either. She stared at me blankly. Whatever it was she had been going to
say had fallen off the edge of her brain. I could see her trying to catch it on its way down – but it was gone.

‘Thanks,’ she said instead.

‘That’s okay, Mum. I won’t be long.’ I thought about asking her if she wanted something to eat but I didn’t want to prolong the conversation. Besides, she’d
only say no. I decided to make her a sandwich anyhow and hoped she would eat it.

While I was waiting for the kettle to boil I made a start on the washing up. Every time someone walked along the street I looked up, expecting the squeak from the gate followed by Lily’s
legs coming down the basement steps.

When I’d finished clearing up, I made Mum’s tea and threw together a hummus and lettuce sandwich. I wasn’t very hungry but I made a peanut butter and lettuce sandwich for
myself. Mum’s always been vegetarian so at home Lily and I are too, by default. If we eat out anywhere, Lily makes a point of ordering meat and if we do the shopping she always sneaks some
bacon into the trolley and then stinks the flat out by cooking it until it’s crispy. It’s pretty gross really.

I was about to leave the kitchen, clutching Mum’s sandwich in one hand and her tea in the other, when I heard the gate squeak and the sound of footsteps coming down the stone steps.

Lily.

I put Mum’s supper down and opened the door. It was Carmel.

‘Hi, can I come in? I’ve got some good news.’

Reluctantly I let her in. I hoped I could keep Mum out of this. I didn’t want Carmel to see her in a state. Carmel spotted the supper.

‘Sorry if it’s a bad time.’

I pulled out one of the chairs at the table, hoping Carmel would take the hint and we wouldn’t have to go into the sitting room. But Mum must have heard the door.

‘Lily?’

Oh God. Carmel looked at me enquiringly.

‘Mum’s just woken up; she’s not too good today,’ I explained. ‘I’ll just take her this sandwich, then I’ll make you a cup of tea.’

‘Okay, but she’ll need to sign a few things,’ said Carmel, putting her briefcase on one of the spare chairs.

When I got back from explaining to Mum that the social worker was here but she needn’t worry about it, Carmel was making her own cup of tea. She indicated my peanut butter sandwich,
‘Don’t mind me, carry on,’ she said, so I sat down and started on my sandwich.

‘Right, the good news is, I’ve pulled some strings and managed to find you a new school.’ She rooted around in her briefcase and came out with a folder. She didn’t go on
about how difficult it had been, with it still being the summer holiday and everything, but I sort of got the idea. To be honest I wasn’t listening too closely. School isn’t exactly my
biggest priority at the moment. I just wanted her to tell me where it was and when term started. And I’d probably have to sort some uniform out. Beyond that I didn’t really care. I know
that sounds awful considering how much time I’m going to be spending there. But I made all the right noises, because I didn’t want Carmel to think I was ungrateful. Eventually she got
up to go, telling me she’d be back to talk to Mum about it later in the week and leaving me some forms for her to sign.