Apple and Rain (19 page)

‘You were waiting for one of them to give up?’ I ask.

‘Yup. Oldest trick in the book. The machines all pay out eventually. Rigged, aren’t they? Let’s see how much that bloke’s left behind.’

We step up to the machine. Del pushes back his sleeves. I can’t be sure under the dark lighting, but I think his watch is pink.

He sees me looking and taps it. ‘Told you it was my favourite colour. I don’t lie.’

Rain is already by Del’s side. Her eyes are glued to the buttons and lights. ‘What does it do anyway? The other ones are better. You can win toys. Why don’t we play on them?’

Del grips the fruit machine with two hands. He strokes it with his thumbs. ‘What you have to understand is that all the other games are a bit of fun, but a fruitie –’ he takes a deep breath – ‘it requires respect. It’s not about having fun. It’s about making some wonga. Want to make some wonga?’

‘You mean money?’ Rain asks.

He lowers his voice so I almost can’t hear him over the din. ‘Cash.’ He reaches into a trouser pocket, but when he pulls out his hand, he’s only got a bunch of coppers. ‘Ah, Houston we have a hitch.’

‘You’ve no money,’ I say.

‘Can you loan me a pound?’

‘I haven’t got any money,’ I say.

‘You’ve got the change from the chips,’ Rain says.

‘But Mum’ll want it back.’

Del puts his arm around my shoulder like we’re old friends. He smells of vinegar. ‘And you’ll get it back. That and five more. I promise.’

I rummage in my pocket and pull out the change, still wrapped in its receipt. I’ve two pound coins and two pennies. ‘I don’t want more back, but if you lose it, you owe me.’

‘Deal!’

Del pops the pound coins into the slot. The fruit machine comes to life with a riot of pings. The wheels in the machine spin. The buttons below them flash as if we’ve already won something. Del limbers up by putting his hands on his shoulders and making circles with his elbows. ‘Ready?’ he asks.

‘Go!’ Rain says.

Del smacks one button. He waits until a wheel stops and a cherry appears. He stretches his neck from side to side and smacks another button. Another cherry appears. ‘Want to take the final bash?’ he asks Rain.

She shakes her head.

Excitement dribbles through me at the thought of winning. I want to hit a button. But Del doesn’t ask me to. He laughs and uses his fist to bang the last button really hard.

A red fruit appears and lines up with the other two. ‘Cherry!’ Rain shouts.

I cheer and high-five Del.

‘Double or nothing,’ he says. Without banking his winnings from the cherries, he has the fruit machine whist­­ling again.

‘What are you doing? We won,’ I say.

‘Not enough. One more go.’

I bite the insides of my cheeks. Del hits the first button and a dollar sign appears. And another dollar. And a third dollar!

‘No way!’ I shout.

Rain yelps. The men at the other fruit machines frown. Del pulls a handle by the top of the machine. Coins clink against its innards and are spewed on to a dish by our knees.

Rain collects the money. ‘Must be at least twenty quid there,’ Del says. ‘And I reckon that’s all this machine’s gonna dish out. Shall we go?’

We follow him out, find a bench on the promenade and count. ‘Twenty-four pounds!’ I say.

‘What did I tell you?’ Del blows on his fingernails and pretends to buff them on his shirt. ‘I should leave school and do this full-time. I’d own a Ferrari by the summer. Or, at the very least, a really cool skateboard.’

Rain and I laugh. I put two pound coins in my pocket and try to hand the rest to Del. He waves me away.

‘But it’s yours,’ I say.

‘I don’t want it. I just like to play.’ He runs his hands through his hair. He smiles and I smile back.

‘So, how are we going to spend it?’ I ask.

‘Candy!’ Rain shouts.

‘But not for Jenny,’ Del says.

Rain looks at the doll. I think she’d forgotten she was even holding her. ‘No. Not for Jenny.’

‘OK,’ I say, acting like I’m indulging Rain when really the idea of a mountain of sweets sounds great. ‘There’s a pick ’n’ mix place by the pier.’ I point towards it.

Rain skips ahead, holding the pink teddy in one arm and Jenny in the other. Her long, scraggly plait wags like a puppy’s tail.

‘You don’t have to hang around with us if you’ve got better things to do,’ I say to Del.

‘I’ll have to cancel my pedicure actually,’ he says. He nudges me in the side with his elbow. ‘So, seriously, when are you coming back to school?’

I shrug. ‘Wish I knew.’

‘You’re missing out. Mr Gaydon’s got us writing gobbledygook.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘We’ve been reading this poem called “Jabberwocky” by Lewis Carroll which has loads of made-up words in it but somehow makes sense anyway. Then we’ve been writing our own poems. It’s sort of fun. Sort of.’

I nibble at my nails. I miss English class and Mr Gaydon’s way of looking at the world. Like being ourselves is enough. ‘If I give you my email address, can you send me a copy of the poem?’ I ask Del.

‘Sure thing, toots,’ he says.

Rain is standing outside the pick ’n’ mix shop next to an old-fashioned candyfloss machine. The big wheel towers above her. ‘Apple, is this the place?’ she shouts.

‘Wait there!’ I call. Then I sigh. ‘She’s convinced that doll’s real. Lately, she’s been pretending it’s sick. Keeps trying to get me to take her to the doctor.’

My hands are swinging by my sides. So are Del’s. They brush against each other. Neither of us put our hands in our pockets. ‘Maybe it isn’t Jenny who needs a doctor, if you know what I mean,’ Del says.

‘Mum hasn’t registered her with a GP yet. It’s complicated when you come from abroad.’

‘What I meant was, maybe Rain knows she needs a doctor and that’s why she keeps asking you to take Jenny to see one.’

I stop and look at him. For someone who lives on the moon, he’s figured out quite a lot about the real world.

‘She wants help?’ I ask.

‘I don’t know, do I? Maybe.’ He pulls a packet of bubble­gum from his pocket and offers me one. ‘Watermelon,’ he says. I don’t like real watermelon – the texture makes me want to gag, but bubblegum’s different. I take one from Del. Sweetness fills my mouth.

‘If I show up at the doctor myself, they’ll wonder . . .’ I trail off. I haven’t told him that I’m Rain’s unpaid babysitter. If I say it out loud, all the skipping school and looking after Rain might seem worse than it really is.

‘Why can’t your mum take her?’

‘She’s an actress. She’s busy going to auditions and stuff.’

‘Right,’ he says like he understands, but I can see from his expression that he’s trying to work something out. ‘So, she’s acting and that means you two don’t go to school?’

‘Well, Rain can’t go with the doll.’

‘Ah, right, right,’ he says again. He looks even more confused.

‘I know what you’re thinking.’

‘I’m not thinking anything.’ He pauses. ‘Actually, I am. I’m wondering whether a snail finds its shell heavy. I’d hate to have to carry a thing like that around.’

‘Stop it, Del. You think that my mum doesn’t care about us. That she only cares about herself. But she needs to act to feed us and to pay the rent and . . .’ I twist my hands together. The truth is I have no idea where Mum is right now or what she’s doing. The only acting part she def­­initely has is a small role in a play and that doesn’t start until next week. And then I realise she has no idea where
we
are or what we’re doing either. Would she care if she knew we’d spent the afternoon gambling on fruit machines?

Del places a hand on my arm. ‘Are you OK?’

I feel so tired – like I might cry. Luckily Rain distracts me from my tears by jumping and waving at us.

‘Hurry up!’ she shouts.

‘Coming!’ I call. Del and I run to her.

‘Right, so the price in these places is based on weight,’ Del tells her. ‘My advice is to go for the light stuff. Marshmallows, that kind of thing. Avoid Brazil nuts. Heavy as hell. Got it?’

Rain nods. ‘How much can I buy?’

‘Hmm.’ Del taps his chin with his index finger. ‘About a third of a bag. That sound good?’

Rain nods. ‘Sounds great!’ She looks at me and then quickly pushes Jenny into my arms and skips away. I stare at the doll. Maybe I should throw her into the nearest bin. I could tell Rain someone kidnapped her. Rain would be sad, devastated probably, but wouldn’t that solve the problem? Rain could be a normal girl again and maybe she’d fancy a few boys and buy make-up and feel insecure about her thighs – normal stuff like that. I suggest it to Del.

‘Don’t be a crazy lady. Give her here.’ He grabs Jenny from me and holds her on his hip like a real baby. An old man with a flat cap frowns at him, but Del doesn’t care. He strokes Jenny’s back. When Rain acts like Jenny’s real, it gives me this sick feeling, but Del doing it makes me smile.

‘What you getting?’ he asks. He points at the rainbow rows of sweets snaking around the shop.

‘Cola bottles,’ I say.

‘Ah, a bit of a sweet-and-sour fan, huh? Me, I’m into black liquorice.’

‘Ew. No one likes that.’

‘I do. And if you don’t, it’s perfect because it means you won’t steal any of mine.’

He grabs two paper bags. One for me. One for him. I am laughing, but I don’t know why. It’s not the best day of my life or the most fun, but I feel happy for the first time in ages.

And then I look at the flat paper bag and at Del and Rain picking their sweets. And I go from feeling happy to feeling like my heart is a stick of rock. Before now I didn’t even know I needed cheering up. I thought I was OK. I thought I was perfectly fine and that Rain was the one with the problem.

I load up my bag with cola bottles and realise Del was right – I’m a big sweet-and-sour fan.

34

I eat so many sweets that by the time Rain and I get home, my teeth hurt. I brush them and make Rain brush hers. Then we climb up on to her bunk with a bottle of water, a stack of books and my laptop. I check my email and Del has already sent the poem. I read it through and even though I don’t know what all the words mean, it makes me laugh.

‘What’s funny?’ Rain asks. She is studying a world atlas, the page open at a map of Africa.

‘Just something Del sent,’ I tell her.

‘Show me.’ She puts down her book.

‘It’s a poem called “Jabberwocky”. I’ll read a bit of it,’ I say. Rain leans back into her pillow to listen.

‘
’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves

Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;

All mimsy were the borogoves,

And the mome raths outgrabe
.’

I wiggle my fingers and tickle her tummy.

Rain giggles. ‘More!’

‘You want me to read the whole thing?’

‘With actions!’ she says.

I kneel on the bed and round my back, trying to look like a monster. And I read, my voice low and growly:

‘
“Beware the Jabberwock, my son!

The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!

Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun

The frumious Bandersnatch!”
’

When I’ve read it through to the end, Rain claps. ‘That
was
funny,’ she says. ‘Did Del write it?’

‘No, it was someone called Lewis Carroll.’

‘I want to write one.’

‘OK, let’s,’ I say. I jump down from the bunk, pull my special poetry exercise book and a mechanical pencil from my bag and climb back up next to Rain.

She is muttering to herself. ‘I’ve got the first bit,’ she says.

I open the book and hold the pencil ready. ‘Go on.’

She holds a finger in the air. ‘
She boobled down to the dirreny sonce
,’ she says. She sounds doubtful but I write it in the book, spelling the words however they first come to me. Rain runs her finger along the line. ‘What do you think it means?’ she wonders.

‘Hmm. I think the person is stumbling her way to a murky river.’

‘Yes!’ Rain says. ‘Now your turn.’

I think for a few seconds. ‘
Alone, unarmed, her tickery jonced
,’ I say.

Rain giggles again and taps the book. ‘That rhymes! Quick, write it down before you forget!’

And we do this for an hour, taking turns and discussing what the words might mean. At the end, when we read it through, we change a few of the parts so they sound creepier or so the beat of the poem goes more smoothly. And for the whole time I forget that I’m babysitting or that Rain is sick and just focus on writing something good.

‘Read it from the start,’ Rain tells me once we’ve agreed it’s as good as it can be.