The Year of the Rat (19 page)

‘I’m sorry,’ I say.

We walk on in silence.

‘I just can’t believe it. I can’t believe he’d do it. First of all it was like I was in shock. Now I just can’t stop crying.’

I look at her, irritated. I know she’s upset, but it’s hardly the end of the world. ‘Maybe it’s for the best,’ I say.

Molly stops and looks at me, her eyes wide and uncomprehending.

‘What?’

‘Maybe it’ll turn out to be for the best.’

I’ve never seen Molly look so angry. In fact, I’ve never seen her look angry at all. But she certainly is now.

‘How can you say that?’ she shouts, and a couple of pram-pushing mums in front of us turn round disapprovingly. ‘My mum’s in pieces. The boys can’t sleep at night.
I’m trying to hold everything together.’

‘I just meant—’

‘I should have known you’d be like this.’

‘Like what?’

She thinks about it, searching for the right word. ‘Cold. I don’t know why I’m even surprised. It’s what you’re like now. It’s as if you’re a different
person from the Pearl I knew.’ She shakes her head. ‘You’re so distant. Nothing gets through to you, does it? It’s like you just don’t care about anyone. I thought
after everything you’ve been through you might be sympathetic. I thought you’d understand how I feel—’

And now it’s my turn to lose it.

‘Are you seriously comparing your dad running off with some slapper from Swindon to my mum dying?’

‘No.’

‘Good. Because you’ll never understand how I feel.’

‘No, I don’t suppose I will. Because it doesn’t matter how many times I’ve asked you, or tried to help, you just shut me out. I feel like I don’t even know
you.’

‘I’ll never see my mum again. So don’t expect me to be all heartbroken just because your dad can’t keep it in his trousers.’

The pram-pushers tut and shake their heads.

Molly puts her face up close to mine. She’s shaking. For a second I think she’s going to slap me. ‘At least your mum didn’t choose to leave you,’ she whispers,
tears sliding down her cheeks.

Then she turns away from me and walks off into the dusk.

‘Ravi was right about you,’ she shouts over her shoulder.

‘Why? What did he say?’ I call.

But she doesn’t answer.

I’m so angry I just walk, rerunning the argument over and over in my head. How dare she? How
dare
she? I’m shaking with anger and with cold too. The sky
darkens as the sun drops below the houses on the far side of the park. Everyone else has left, but I just keep walking, along the paths and avenues, not caring where I’m going.

Eventually, I find I’m back at the kids’ playground. It’s deserted now. The light is dim and shadowy, and the wind is bitter. I don’t care. I sit on a swing and push with
my feet, trying to let the motion soothe me. The metal chains are freezing under my fingers. The cold ache is satisfying.

I tip my head back as I swing, back and forth, back and forth, until I’m dizzy. The sky is already flecked with dim stars.

‘Well, this is nice.’

I start at the sound of her voice. It’s Mum, sitting on the swing furthest away from me.

‘Oh. Hello.’

‘Everything OK?’

I remember the look on Molly’s face just before she walked away from me.

‘Course,’ I say. ‘Why shouldn’t it be?’

I look over to see if she’s buying it, but in the falling dark I can’t really make out her face.

‘Oh, I don’t know, Pearl. You’re hanging out on your own in a kids’ playground in the middle of the night . . .’

I can feel her staring at me, waiting for an explanation, but I just carry on swinging.

‘With no coat . . .’

‘It’s not the middle of the night.’

‘Even though it’s minus thirty—’

‘Why do you
always
have to exaggerate?’ I snap. ‘I know you think it’s funny. But it’s not. It’s just annoying.’

‘Oh.’

‘And childish.’

Mum lights a cigarette. She doesn’t say anything for a moment and I wonder if I’ve gone too far. ‘Well, that’s me told,’ she says at last, her face still masked in
shadow.

‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘But you’re always going on at me.’

‘Am I not allowed to worry about you?’

‘You’re always nagging. Always asking me questions.’

‘I know you’re not telling me what’s really going on.’ She says it carefully, the precision and weight of her words concealing the emotion beneath them, whatever it is.
‘You won’t ever tell me the truth.’

I watch the amber tip of her cigarette glow bright as she takes a drag.

I take a deep breath. ‘I told you. There’s nothing wrong.’

We sit on our swings in silence, not looking at each other.

‘I know you told me,’ she says eventually. ‘And I know you’re lying.’

‘How do you know?’

‘I’m your mum, Pearl.’

I think about it. It’s so tempting just to tell her. About Molly. About everything. Dad and school and The Rat. What a mess everything is. How lonely and small and grey my life has become
without her.

‘Well, you’re wrong,’ I say. ‘I’m fine.’

I shut my eyes and feel the cold against my eyelids as I swing. Mum doesn’t say anything.

I lean back again. The stars blur and I feel hot tears brimming in my eyes.

I sit up suddenly and stop the swing with my foot.

‘Mum?’

But I know before I look that her swing is empty, still swaying a little in the cold night.

I stare at the piece of paper with James’s phone number on it, feeling sick. I’ve waited until a Saturday morning when Dad and Granny have gone out and taken The
Rat with them. They’re off to meet a cousin of Dad’s who’s in London for the day so they’ll be gone for ages. No doubt there’ll be lots of cooing over The Rat.

I go downstairs and get the phone. Then I sit on my bed and start dialling. My finger is poised over the last number when I stop. What will I say if he answers? I try to imagine it.
Hello,
is that James? It’s Pearl here
. . .
Or should I say
your daughter Pearl,
just to be clear? It’s unlikely he knows anyone else called Pearl, but it might be best,
just to make sure there are no embarrassing misunderstandings. What then? Maybe once I hear his voice I’ll know what to say. Or maybe he’ll be so pleased to hear from me he’ll
just start talking. Perhaps he’s been waiting for me to call all this time and he’s got years and years of things to tell me. Or there might just be one of those awkward pauses where no
one knows what to say and the longer it goes on the worse it gets . . .

I throw the phone down on the bed. I know I’m not going to be able to do it. I could write to him instead. That way I could get everything straight in my head and write it all down
properly and make myself sound clever.

I walk over to the window and look outside. It’s a bleak day, the wind whipping the bare branches of the trees, squeezing in through the gaps around the windowpane. They’ll be
freezing up on the South Bank. I imagine Granny tutting as her perfectly coiffed hairdo is dismantled by the gales and smile.

As I watch, I hear Dulcie’s front door slam and Finn walks down the path. I run downstairs.

‘Hector,’ I call. ‘Walkies.’ He comes trotting out of the kitchen and I grab him, attach the lead to his collar, pull my coat on and run out of the front door. Hector
trots along beside me, surprised and delighted by this unexpected turn of events. As we get to the gate, I slow down and try to look surprised as we turn on to the pavement and almost run into
Finn.

‘Oh,’ I say. ‘Hello.’

He looks up and as he sees me there’s a flicker – isn’t there? – of a smile.

‘Hi,’ he says. ‘How are you?’

‘Good,’ I say. Then I look down and see he’s carrying a bunch of flowers and my heart thuds. Flowers.

He’s going to see a girl. He’s taking her flowers.

Well, so what if he is? It’s nothing to do with me. It’s a free country. Why should I care? Hector’s pulling at the lead and whining, desperate to get going on his unexpected
walk.

‘Shut
up,
Hector,’ I snap, still looking at the flowers in Finn’s hand, deep red roses, the colour so vibrant it seems to imprint itself on my eyes so I can see them
even when I blink.

‘They’re for my nan,’ he says quickly, noticing my stare. ‘She’s had to go into hospital again. I’ve just cut them from her garden. I thought it would cheer
her up.’

‘Oh no,’ I say, trying not to look relieved. ‘Poor Dulcie, is she OK?’

‘No, not really. She’s been ill for a while now and . . .’ He looks away. ‘Well, she’s not going to get any better.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I say uselessly.

He nods. ‘I’d better get going,’ he says. ‘I’m staying at the house tonight so don’t worry if you see the lights on. Mum’s coming down later too, as
soon as she can get away from work. We’re staying for a few days while we sort things out.’

‘OK,’ I say. ‘Give Dulcie my love, won’t you?’

‘I will.’

‘Oh!’ I say. ‘I just remembered. You can’t take flowers to the hospital.’

‘What?’

‘They won’t let you. It’s some health and safety thing.’ Granny had sent a massive bouquet for The Rat when she was first in hospital and Dad had to bring it home. It had
sat in its cellophane and tissue paper on the side in the hall until it went dry and brown and he had to throw it away.

‘Oh right.’ He looks so disappointed I think for an instant he’s going to cry. ‘You have them,’ he says suddenly and thrusts them at me.

I can feel myself blushing. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Take them,’ he says. So I do. ‘See you then.’

‘See you.’

I let Hector pull me away, his nose to the ground, on the trail of something or other. I’ll probably never see Finn again.
What does it matter?
I tell myself.
What does any of
it matter?

But even as I’m thinking it I’m turning back, pulling an unwilling Hector after me. Finn’s just crossing the road.

‘It’s the fireworks down on the Heath tonight.’ I can feel myself going as red as the roses as the words tumble out of my mouth. ‘I don’t suppose you want to
go?’

He looks surprised and for a moment I’m worried he’ll say no. Then he smiles. ‘Sure,’ he calls back.

I turn away and smile. Hector is watching me eagerly. ‘Come on then,’ I say. ‘We might as well go for a walk now we’re here.’

The wind is stinging as we walk down the road, but I don’t care.

Granny soon gets over her sulk about me refusing to go with them to be frozen to death by the Thames when she finds out I’m going out with Finn. She’s been moaning
all week about the fireworks, due to the unfortunate effect they have on Hector. But now suddenly they’re not so bad after all.

‘But you can’t possibly go looking like that,’ she says when I come down in jeans and my parka.

‘We’re going to the fireworks,’ I say. ‘What do you want me to wear? Stilettos and a little black dress?’

She shakes her head in despair. ‘Let me do your make-up at least.’

‘It’s not a date,’ I say.

‘Course it’s not.’

She looks so smug I wear Dad’s West Ham bobble hat just to annoy her. I take it off once I’m out of the front door.

It’s bitterly cold on the Heath, crowded with people wrapped in scarves and hats waving glow sticks and sparklers. I was nervous about seeing Finn and at first it’s
a bit awkward, but after a few minutes it’s fine. We
ooh
and
aah
at the fireworks: fiery flowers blooming in the clear night sky. It’s like magic. I feel like a kid
again, swept up in the moment.

‘You look happy,’ Finn says at last. ‘I’ve never really seen you look happy.’ And I realize he’s been watching me, not the fireworks.

‘I am happy,’ I say. And when he takes my hand I don’t let go.

We don’t say much as we walk back. As the crowds thin out, Finn seems lost in thought and we walk along in silence, but it doesn’t feel awkward now. It feels right.
I find I’m still smiling. But, when I look at Finn, he’s not.

‘Are you thinking about Dulcie?’

‘Yes,’ he says, surprised. ‘How did you know?’

‘You looked sad.’

‘Sorry.’

‘Don’t be.’

He pushes the hair back out of his eyes. ‘It’s hard, watching someone you love grow old.’

‘It’s hard not having the chance to see them grow old.’

‘I know,’ he says, squeezing my hand.

As we walk past the chippy, the smell of chips and vinegar wafts out into the cold night.

‘Shall we get some?’ Finn says. ‘I’m starving.’

And, to my surprise, so am I. We share a bag as we walk.

When we get to the house, we stop under the lamp post, bathed in golden light, the dark all around us.

‘Thanks,’ I say. ‘I’d forgotten about feeling happy.’

He carefully pushes the hair back from my face so he can see me properly.

‘That first time I met you,’ he says, ‘when you yelled at me over the garden wall?’

‘Yes?’ I still blush thinking about it.

‘It was your mum you were shouting at, wasn’t it?’

I hesitate. ‘Yes.’

He looks me right in the eyes and for a second it’s as if he’s looking inside my head, right inside to where no one else sees, and I can’t breathe.