Apple and Rain (12 page)

‘Can you believe it?’

I can’t. If Mum was an actress on
EastEnders
, she’d be famous. I’d have a famous mum. And Nana couldn’t stop me watching it.

‘Right, some coffee and I’m gone,’ Mum says. ‘Do you need me to write you a note to explain why you’re so late? I’ll say you were at the dentist. Isn’t Rain up yet?’

‘She said she doesn’t have to go to school.’

Mum bites into her toast. Crumbs fall to the floor. She looks down and sweeps them to the side with her foot. ‘I’ll send her back when all this Jenny business is over with. The kids are giving her a hard time and the teachers aren’t much better. I’ll let her hang around with me for a bit.’

‘What if she never realises that Jenny is a doll?’

Mum frowns. ‘I hadn’t thought that far ahead,’ she says.

She stamps the pedal on the bin and throws the toast into it. She grabs a blunt green pencil. ‘Get me a piece of paper to write the note,’ she says.

I don’t move. I really wish I didn’t have to go in. I haven’t got any friends. Plus, I didn’t do my homework. I don’t want Mr Gaydon to think I don’t care – since he showed up, English is my favourite class. I actually like writing poems.

Rain stumbles into the kitchen in her nightie. ‘Why aren’t you
ready
?’ Mum says. She tries to shoo Rain back down the hall. ‘I can’t be late. I want this agent to take me on. And we need the money from a steady gig.’

‘Stop pushing me,’ Rain whines.

‘You’re being purposefully difficult. You can have a KitKat to take on the bus if you’re hungry. Just
get dressed
.’

Rain stamps her foot in temper.

Mum looks at her watch.

‘Why are you taking the bus? Haven’t you got your car back from the garage yet?’ I ask.

‘Huh?’ Mum scratches her neck and slips her feet into a pair of high shoes.

Rain slides past her into the kitchen, opens the fridge and pours milk into a baby bottle.

‘Rain, what the hell are you
doing
?’ Mum says. She rubs her temples.

‘Jenny has to eat, in case you’d forgotten,’ Rain says.

Mum checks her watch again and puts her hand on my shoulder. ‘Apple, I know this is a big ask, but can you watch Rain for me? I’ll be home before five. Can you do that?’

‘I don’t need a stupid babysitter. Not
her
anyway,’ Rain says.

‘Apple?’

Mum doesn’t have time to wait for me to deliberate. She rummages in her handbag and throws a tenner at me. ‘Get pizza for lunch,’ she says.

‘I’m sick of pizza,’ Rain says.

Mum lowers her voice. ‘And I’m sick of . . .’ She pauses. Rain stares at her. ‘I’m sick of . . . I’m sick of always being late,’ she says. She grabs her coat from the hallstand, bangs down the stairs and slams the front door behind her.

‘Good riddance!’ Rain shouts.

I fall on to the couch. I don’t want to go to school, but keeping Rain in line isn’t my idea of a day off.

‘You don’t have to look so miserable,’ Rain tells me.

‘Leave me alone. I’m going to do my homework,’ I say. ‘And if you plan to stay home for a while, maybe you should read some books.’

‘I haven’t got any books,’ she says.

‘You haven’t got any books?’

She shakes her head. I’m stunned.

So we go to the library.

25

In the children’s section of the library, a squadron of toddlers are banging spoons, blowing whistles and screaming along to nursery rhymes. I want to leave, but Rain says Jenny might like the rhymes. She sits in the circle with the doll on her lap. Some of the mothers throw her suspicious looks. The singing librarian gives Rain a wide, welcoming wave. After a couple of songs, Rain joins in with the singing. I leave her to it and flop down in front of a computer in the research section.

A librarian with spiky white hair points at a sign above my computer:
30 min limit for PCs
.

‘If you’re doing some homework, you don’t have to worry about that. We just don’t want people sitting here and spending five hours chatting online. Do you know how to work the computer?’ She looks about Nana’s age and even has a bit of Nana’s soft lilt.

‘Yes, thank you,’ I say. I open a new document, expecting her to go back to her work. She stands with one hand on my desk, looking at the screen.

‘Is it an INSET day?’ she asks.

‘Huh?’

‘You’re not at school. Is it a staff INSET?’

‘Uh, yeah,’ I say. ‘The teachers have a meeting.’

‘And they’ll be on strike next month. What do they expect parents to do with their kids all day?’

I lightly tap the keyboard without writing anything.

‘Well, if you need help, I’m over there,’ she says, and walks away.

I type slowly and check over my shoulder occasionally to make sure no one is reading what I’m writing.

‘War’ by Apple Apostolopoulou

It doesn’t look like war

Unless you examine it closely – with your glasses on,

Drawing your finger over the cracks in the friendship.

We were a pair,

A team of two

Until Donna took her

Away –

Swooped down and grabbed Pilar

Like an eagle diving for fish at the edge of the ocean.

I never thought that could happen.

I thought for ever friends meant just that:

For ever and for ever and for ever.

Now I know it means

Until.

Until someone better comes along,

Until the conductor swipes her baton,

Chooses you, not me, and

Ends our symphony.

I get to one hundred words then turn to check on Rain. She is fully engrossed in a wild rendition of ‘Head, Shoulders, Knees and Toes’. Jenny has lost a shoe.

I read through what I’ve written but as usual, it’s too close to the truth. I can’t hand it in.

I open a fresh document and start again:

‘War’ by Apple Apostolopoulou

I don’t understand people who make football into war. My dad loves Arsenal. He’s their biggest fan, but I don’t think he really likes watching them play all that much because when he does, he gets really angry. He shouts and swears and knocks the stuffing from cushions. And he acts as though the players on the other team are evil. He tells me he hates the managers of the other teams too. In England there are a lot of football hooligans who go to games just to have fights. But football is a sport, so it should be fun.

‘How do I print?’ I call over to the librarian.

She smiles. ‘I’ll print it for you,’ she says. She comes and sits on the chair next to mine. I don’t want her reading what I’ve written, but she doesn’t. She presses some buttons and gets the printer set up. Across the room, it gurgles to life.

She jumps up and returns with my English homework.

I fold the paper and put it into my bag. ‘Thank you,’ I say.

She bows slightly as Rain comes bounding over from the children’s section. ‘Jenny
really
loved that!’ she says. Her face is flushed from dancing and singing.

‘It was nice of you to bring her along,’ I say. I’m being sort of sarcastic, but Rain doesn’t notice. ‘OK, shall we get books so you have something to do at home for the rest of the week?’ I ask.

The librarian frowns and looks like she’s about to ask a question. I quickly pull Rain by the arm back into the children’s section.

‘Right, you need some fiction and non-fiction. I think if you get one history, one science and two novels, that’ll be enough for today.’

Rain looks around at the shelves. ‘Can I take them home?’

‘It’s a library, Rain, of course you can. Haven’t you ever borrowed a book from a library?’

‘Nope. I read stuff on Mum’s iPad.’

‘But . . .’ I look along the shelves. I never choose a book without picking it up and flicking through the pages. I always read the first few lines. ‘Come on, I’ll show you the ones I like,’ I say. I take her to the fiction section, and we explore.

Rain is sitting on the floor with her legs crossed, completely engrossed in a mystery about a girl who goes to sleep one night in her parents’ boring old house in Croydon and wakes up the next day in a Victorian London orphanage. I’m reading the brand new Mallary Ford novel, which I’ve been waiting for ages for the library to get in. I’ve also found a book of poems by someone called Emily Dickinson. Most of them are short. I scan my eye over one or two and decide to give the collection a try.

‘Shall we get these then?’ I say. I pat the pile of books we’ve chosen.

Rain doesn’t look up from her reading.

‘Let’s get going.’ I pull her to her feet.

We’re on our way to the front desk when I see Nana chatting with the white-haired librarian. I yank Rain behind a bookcase.

‘Ouch. Don’t hurt me.’

‘Shh.’ I press my index finger to my lips. ‘Nana’s here. If she sees us . . .’ I stop because I don’t know what she’d do. All I know is that I don’t want to find out.

‘She’s not
my
nana,’ Rain says.

‘Yes, she is. Or your nan or gran or grandma or whatever you want to call her,’ I whisper.

Rain peers around the bookcase. ‘Is she nice?’

‘Yes. She’s . . . very nice.’ I take a peek myself, using one eye.

Nana is leaning on the issuing desk, watching the librarian scan the barcodes. She isn’t crying or frowning or anything like that, but she looks sad. Her eyes look sad. And her shoulders are rounded.

I hide behind the bookcase again.

‘Is she OK?’ Rain asks, seeing it too.

‘Don’t know. Maybe Derry’s sick or Nana fell out with someone at the church,’ I say. But if it is one of those things then why do I feel so guilty? I sneak another look as Nana drops her books into her shopping trolley and slowly shuffles out of the library. I’ve always thought of Nana as old-fashioned but I never thought she was
old
. Not until now, and it makes me want to chase after her.

‘What’s happening?’ Rain asks.

‘Nothing,’ I say.

I take her to the desk to have our books issued.

‘You’re lucky to snap this one up,’ the librarian says. She holds up the Mallary Ford novel.

‘I know. I love her books,’ I say quietly.

I don’t sound excited – I can’t be. All I can think about are Nana’s sad eyes and rounded shoulders. All I can think about is how I probably should have helped her wheel home the shopping trolley.

26

 Even though Mum’s not home at five o’clock like she said she would be, I don’t worry. I don’t even worry at six o’clock. Instead, I put a frozen cottage pie into the oven and set the dining table ready for when she does get home. I fold the paper napkins in two and arrange them smartly in the glasses like they do at restaurants. I put a bottle of white wine in the fridge.

At seven o’clock she still isn’t home. When I call her mobile, she doesn’t answer.

‘Where is she?’ Rain asks even though she
knows
I don’t know. I feel like telling her to shut up, but I don’t. It isn’t her fault Mum’s late.

‘Have you got any of her friends’ phone numbers?’ I ask.

‘Do you think something bad has happened to her?’

‘Don’t be stupid,’ I say. But my belly’s becoming a ball of dough that feels like it’s rolling around inside me – heavy and raw. ‘Why don’t you give Jenny a bath? I’m sure Mum’ll be back before bedtime,’ I say. I try to sound convinced.

I distract myself from thinking about Mum being hurt by cleaning the kitchen. I shine the taps and the hob and the fronts of all the cupboards. I empty the crumbs out of the toaster.

I’m on my knees under the table with the dustpan and brush when Rain comes back in. Jenny is wrapped in a towel. Rain looks in the fridge then slams it.

‘We’ve no milk, and Jenny’s hungry,’ she says.

I look up and bump my head on the corner of one of the chairs. ‘Jenny’s fine. Give her some water,’ I snap. I rub my head.

‘She won’t sleep without milk.’

‘Rain, come
on
. It’s dark and drizzly outside, and Mum’s still not home.’

‘Fine. I’ll go get it myself.’ She puts a hat on Jenny and clambers into her jacket.

‘Get back here.’ I crawl out from under the table and catch hold of her hood.

‘Hey!’ She screeches much louder than she needs to. ‘You jerked my neck. And you’ve upset the baby.’

I feel my eyes well with tears. I press my knuckles against my lids and take a deep breath. ‘Jenny will catch a chill.
I’ll
get the milk,’ I say.