The Year of the Rat (24 page)

There’s another wait. Liam’s music is pounding out from inside the flat. My heart’s still thumping, from nerves now rather than the climb up the stairs. Where should I start?
. . . about your dad? About Ravi?
Or maybe just
I’ve been a bitch
to encapsulate everything?

But in the end, when she comes to the door, it all goes out of my head.

‘I lied,’ I say, before she can say anything.

‘What?’ Molly stares at me, unimpressed, arms folded.

‘When I told you about the day Mum died. Do you remember? That time at
Angelo’s
.’ The unexpected words keep coming. I don’t know where from. ‘I said I got
to the hospital in time to say goodbye. I said she hugged me and told me she loved me?’

‘Yes?’

I shut my eyes.

And in my head I’m running. I’m running down green hospital corridors, lungs burning, panic pounding in my chest, and I can’t go on, I can’t keep running. But Dad’s
voicemail message keeps playing and replaying in my head and I do. I keep on running. And now I’m there and Dad’s walking towards me with a look on his face, carved into his face, that
makes my stomach lurch.

What’s going on?
I say.
I want to see Mum.

Let’s sit down.

He tries to take my hand, but I shake him off.

No!
I’m shouting.
Just take me to see Mum.

And he just stands there, helpless.

I can’t, Pearl.
Tears spill down his cheeks.

For a split second I don’t understand. And then I’m dizzy suddenly, as though I’m looking over the edge of a cliff.

Why not?
I start to say. But my voice falters.

Because I know why not. I know what he’s going to say.

No
, I whisper.

And inside my head I’m yelling
SHE CAN’T BE. SHE CAN’T BE. DON’T SAY IT—

But he says it anyway.

I open my eyes. I’m standing outside Molly’s flat again. Her face is wet with tears. Mine is too.

‘You didn’t say goodbye?’ she asks.

‘No.’

And now I never will.

We walk across the Heath, arm in arm. The melting snow is grey-brown and slippery

‘Why didn’t you tell me before?’ Molly says. ‘About your mum?’

‘I couldn’t.’

‘So why are you telling me now?’

‘Because I can.’

She smiles. ‘Good.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Oh my God,’ Molly says. ‘Look! Isn’t that . . .’

I look to where she’s pointing and see Mr S who’s jogging slowly across the Heath, wearing a highly improbable tracksuit and sports cap. On his feet are dazzling white trainers. We
wave and he makes his way over to us, breathing hard.

‘Hello,’ I say, smiling. ‘You look unusual.’

‘Never mind all that,’ he says. ‘I’ve a bone to pick with you. My wife’s been in a rotten mood all Christmas because one of her star pupils says she isn’t
going back after the holidays.’ He gives me a hard look. ‘And who do you think is suffering as a result? Muggins here, that’s who.’

I look at my feet. ‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘And say sorry to Mrs S too. But I’m not going back.’

He stands and stares at me, hands on hips, shaking his head.

‘Even if I wanted to, I bet the Lomax wouldn’t let me,’ I say. ‘She never liked me.’

‘Course she will,’ he says. ‘All that woman cares about is results and she knows you’ll get good ones. Anyway, can’t stop. You see if you can talk some sense into
the girl, Molly.’

And he jogs off. ‘Happy New Year to you both,’ he calls back. ‘Maybe see you at the park with the littlun sometime, Pearl.’

‘Are you really not coming back to school?’ Molly looks horrified.

‘I don’t know.’

‘Oh, please do,’ she says. ‘Pearl, you’ve got to.’

‘It’s too late,’ I say.

‘Mr S is right. She’s bound to let you back. If you’re prepared to grovel.’

‘I’m not very good at grovelling.’

‘No,’ Molly laughs. ‘You’re really not.’

There are people flying kites, some kids and their dads, and we stop to watch, turning our eyes to the sky.

‘I’m sorry about everything,’ I say.

Molly squeezes my arm. ‘I know.’

The clouds are thin above us, silvery with the light of the sun that hides behind them. The laughter and shouts of the children are carried to us on the wind.

‘How’re things with your dad?’

She grimaces. ‘They’re getting divorced.’

‘Sorry,’ I say.

‘It’s OK,’ she says. ‘I mean, it’s not. But things have been so bad between them for so long. At least they’re not rowing any more. Come on,’ she says.
‘Let’s go and get a coffee.’

‘Is Ravi back from uni?’ I say as we walk.

‘Yes,’ she says, smiling. ‘For four whole weeks.’

‘What was it he said about me?’ I ask. ‘You know, that day in the park. You said, “Ravi was right about you.” What did he say?’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ she says.

‘Whatever it was I won’t be angry,’ I say. ‘I know.’

‘He said maybe sometimes, when people lose someone they love, it’s like they die too. It’s like perhaps that’s the only way they can stay close to the person who’s
gone. They stop living.’

I stare at her. ‘That was what he said?’

‘Yep.’

‘Ravi?’

‘Uh-huh.’

I shake my head. ‘I thought he’d said I was a miserable, sarcastic bitch from hell and you should stay away from me.’

‘Oh yeah. He said that too.’

‘Did he?’

She laughs. ‘No, course not.’

‘Do you want to come out for my birthday next week?’ I say as we walk. ‘You and Ravi, I mean?’

Molly kisses me on the cheek. ‘We’d love to.’

The next day a postcard from Verity arrives. It says:

I’m so pleased I stick it up on the fridge. I find a notelet among the things in Mum’s study. I write:

Dulcie is moving into the home today. I’ve told her I’ll go and visit. I watch the removal men carrying all her things out: paintings, furniture, photos. A whole
life fitted into the back of a van. Most of it’s going up to Finn’s parents’ B. & B. She can’t take much to the home.

Finn comes round to say goodbye.

And this time when he kisses me I don’t pull away.

‘Yes,’ she says and despite the smile her voice catches. In the early morning light her hair looks like fire. She closes her eyes and turns her face into the pale
orange glow, which is growing stronger all the time. It picks out the faint lines on her face, exaggerates them. For a second I can imagine what she would have looked like if she’d grown
old.

‘You look beautiful too,’ I say.

She opens one eye and raises an eyebrow.

‘You haven’t been drinking again, have you, Pearl?’

‘No.’

‘Not dabbling in hallucinogenic drugs?’

‘No.’

She laughs. ‘The last time you told me I was beautiful you were four years old. And even then it was only because you’d done my make-up for me. Do you remember? Smeary lipstick all
over the place.’

I smile. And once I’ve started I can’t stop. I stand there in the sunlight, leaning against the window sill and grinning like a loon.

‘I’ve been dreading today,’ I say.

I know I have been, my heart skittering every time I thought about it; but that fear feels far away now, as though it belonged to someone else.

‘I know,’ Mum says and she turns her head away for a moment, looks out of the window again.

‘Let’s go outside,’ she says suddenly.

And I smile some more because it’s exactly what I want to do.

I unlock the patio doors and put on Mum’s coat, which still hangs on the peg it’s always been on, over my nightie. Then I slide my bare feet into a pair of wellies
and we step out into the garden. The grass is stiff with frost. It sparkles in the dawn light.

‘Aren’t you cold?’ Mum says.

I shake my head, though I ought to be.

‘Come on.’ I take her hand and we walk over the crunchy grass down to the bench at the end of the garden and sit down, the gnarled, knotted branches of the trees bare above our
heads.

For a long time we sit in silence. The world is perfectly still. It’s as if there’s only us in it. I can’t remember feeling so happy, so peaceful, so at one with everything
around me.

But when I look at Mum I see her cheeks are wet with tears.

‘What is it?’ I say, taking her hand again.

‘I’m so sorry, Pearl,’ she says at last, and I can feel it, the sorrow that’s inside her. It’s like a wound.

‘What for?’ I say. ‘What are you sorry for?’

She shakes her head, unable to speak, and I hug her for a while, feeling her ribs shudder as she sobs silently.

‘For all of it,’ she says, her voice cracking. ‘For every single tear you’ve shed because of me.’

She looks up at me, her eyes red-rimmed.

‘I’m sorry too,’ I say. ‘I was angry with you. I shouldn’t have been.’

‘I wasn’t honest with you,’ she said. ‘About James. About me. I’m sorry. I never wanted to hurt you.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me? About how things were after I was born? How hard it was?’

‘I wanted to make things how they should have been. I should have been so happy when you were born. But it was exhausting and I was scared and I struggled.’ She takes my hand.
‘I thought I could make things how I wanted them to be. I wanted to make the world perfect for you. I felt so guilty.’

‘That’s what Granny said.’

‘Well, she’s not wrong about everything.’ Mum sighs. ‘She’s interfering and bossy and an appalling snob, but – well. She loves you.’

‘I’ve been so angry. With everyone. But most of all—’ I take a deep breath. I can hear my heartbeat. But I have to tell her. ‘With the baby.’

‘I know.’

I look at her. And I realize she does know. All the things I’ve tried to hide. Dad. The Rat. The lies I’ve told. She knows all of it.

‘How do you know?’ I think of all the things I’ve thought and said and my eyes fill with tears.

‘Because I know
you
.’

‘I’m sorry.’

She takes my hand. ‘I know,’ she says. ‘I’m sorry too.’

A blackbird is singing in the tall trees behind us. I sit, head leaning on Mum’s shoulder, listening. It’s so sad and perfect I think maybe it’s coming from inside me. And in
this moment I understand something; something she can’t tell me.

‘You wouldn’t change it, would you?’ I say. ‘Even if you could? If the alternative was not having had her at all. You’d choose this.’

As I say it, I realize I’ve known it all along.

She nods, tears spilling from her eyes. ‘I’m sorry. Can you forgive me?’

I shut my eyes. The blackbird sings.

I’m so tired. Tired of being angry. Tired of being sad. I lean further into Mum and she puts her arm round me and we sit like that until I’m so sleepy I can’t keep the thoughts
straight in my head. I open my eyes and try to look at Mum, but my eyelids droop. I feel myself falling and sleep rising up to catch me.

‘Come on.’ Mum’s voice seems far away. I’m half aware of her arm round my shoulders. I let her guide me back into the house.

The bed is soft around me. I’m almost asleep.

But I know she’s still there. I can feel the warmth of her pressing against my arm . . .

‘Can you forgive
her
?’ she says as I slip towards sleep.

‘Maybe,’ I try to say. ‘I think I want to.’

‘I didn’t need to make the world perfect for you,’ she whispers. ‘You’re strong. Stronger than me. Strong enough to see life as it is. Messy and terrifying and
unbearable—’ she kisses me on the lips – ‘and wonderful.’

Then she says: ‘I love you.’

And I feel her get up; the warmth of her is gone. I feel her leave.

‘Wait . . .’ I try to grab her hand, but I’m too slow and heavy and full of sleep. ‘I don’t want you to go yet . . .’

When I wake again, the hot yellow sun is streaming in through the window; it’s late. Too late.

I sit up, blind with panic.

She’s gone. I know it.

She’s gone.

She’s gone.

She’s gone.

I hide my face. I sob and I sob and I don’t know how I’m ever going to stop.

I hear Dad’s footsteps. And then his arms are round me and they feel strong and safe, just like they have ever since I was a baby.

‘She’s gone, Dad,’ I say at last. ‘She’s really gone.’

‘Yes,’ he says.

And he cries too.

I’m wrung out and empty and weak and still I can’t stop crying. The tears just keep falling and falling. My cheeks are tight and itchy. My eyes are swollen.

‘I don’t know what to do,’ I say to Dad. ‘What are we going to do?’

He doesn’t say anything, just holds me.

Then he kisses the top of my head and takes my hand.

‘Come on,’ he says.

I follow him. ‘Look,’ he says. We’re standing in front of The Rat’s cot. She’s sleeping, her arms flung out above her head.