Authors: Sarah Crossan
Apple and Rain (22 page)
‘We
both
have to go back to school, Rain,’ I say.
‘We will,’ she replies. ‘Soon.’
By noon, Mum’s still not home. I try her phone again and again but it’s switched off. For lunch I make more Ready brek because we’ve run out of cash. Rain complains that it’s too lumpy, so I go and check the post to stop myself from throwing the bowls against the wall. Then I make us two mugs of tea and sit at the dining table tackling Mr Gaydon’s assignment. The poem is called ‘Blackberry-Picking’ by someone called Seamus Heaney, and it’s basically about people who pick ripe blackberries and fill a bath with them. They try to keep the berries fresh but it’s impossible and eventually the whole lot rots and the narrator feels fed up about it.
I read through it a couple of times then look up the words I don’t understand in an online dictionary. I think it might help me analyse the poem better. It doesn’t make a difference; even though Mr Gaydon said the poem was about more than blackberries, I can’t work out the underlying message.
Rain sits next to me. She grabs the poem and reads it aloud very slowly. ‘Are you learning about fruit?’ she asks.
‘Poems,’ I say.
‘Poems are boring.’
‘But you liked writing the nonsense poem.’
‘Yeah, but that wasn’t a real poem. That was silly.’
‘Poems are good if you think about them a bit like a puzzle. You have to pick all the words apart until you understand the meaning,’ I tell her.
‘Well, I can tell that the meaning of this one is bad. Whatever it is, it’s a very bad meaning,’ she says.
‘How can you tell?’
‘I don’t know. A feeling.’
‘A feeling?’
‘Yeah. Anyway, there’s all bad words in it like “rat” and “stinking”. It’s yucky.’
I read the poem over again in my head. Rain’s right. The poem is gloomy, especially at the end where the blackberries get all grey and mouldy. It’s sad because the person tries to save the berries but they get ruined anyway. And the worst part about it is, he does the same thing every year and never seems to learn his lesson.
I tap my teeth with my fingernails, thinking. Rain opens the freezer and takes out an orange ice lolly. She goes back to reading.
I go back to the laptop.
‘Disappointment’ by Apple Apostolopoulou
All the time Mum was away,
Eleven long years,
I saved up my hopes
Like little pennies in a jar.
I didn’t know her, so I made her up –
And I made her perfect.
In my mind, Mum shimmered like the moon against the sea –
Ghostly and romantic.
But now I know that
She is scratched and stained
And all that’s left is disappointment.
I thought when she came back
I’d have everything that was missing
From my life.
Now all I have
Is an empty jar with
A hole in the bottom to stop
New hopes from heaping up.
For the first time, I don’t write another one hundred words for Mr Gaydon. Instead, I write him an email.
Dear Mr Gaydon,
I am attaching my homework. I think the poem by Seamus Heaney is very sad. It seems to be about how we try to hold on to things that cannot be captured, like fresh fruit. Seamus Heaney uses this as a metaphor for life and it made me think about my mum. When I was a small child, I thought she was perfect. Actually, until a few days ago I still thought she was the coolest person in the world. Now I know she’s just normal and makes mistakes. So, that’s why I wrote a poem called ‘Disappointment’ about her. I hope it’s OK. I know that sometimes you like us to read our work out loud in class, but this poem is personal, so please don’t make me read it to anyone when I get back.
Thank you,
Apple Apostolopoulou
I press
Send
, then spend five minutes with my head in my hands, wishing I’d written a fake answer. I hardly know Mr Gaydon. Maybe he’s one of those teachers who gossips about students in the staffroom. By the time I go back to school, the poem could be halfway around the building.
I only sit up straight when my computer pings with a new message. It’s from Mr Gaydon.
Dear Apple,
I just read your poem. I don’t want to give you a big head, but let me tell you that I’ve now read two of your poems and I don’t think their excellence is a fluke. I think, perhaps, you have talent. But as with all talents, it must be nurtured. Have you been using the book I gave you to write other poems? Perhaps you’ll email them to me?
I have attached a copy of an extract from a poem by Rupert Brooke called ‘The Great Lover’ which we read in class today. Your homework is to write about things you love using this poem as a template. I’m sure you’ll do a wonderful job. Good luck!
Mr G
I gape at the screen. I don’t think a teacher has ever told me I’m talented, not even Mr Rowls who proclaims that everyone, even the percussion players, have ‘musical gifts’. I open my poetry exercise book and flick through its pages. I must have written ten or fifteen poems already, and loads of other unfinished snippets. I hardly even noticed myself doing it.
I open a fresh Word document on my laptop and start to type up some of the poems. As I do, I end up changing them. Not to make them less real but to make them better, to add in some alliteration or rhyme or dramatic punctuation. And then I write Mr Gaydon another email. I type quickly.
Dear Mr Gaydon,
I don’t know whether or not I have a talent, but as I’ve been off school for a while, I’ve had time to write more poems. I have included them with this email, so you can see that I’ve not been lazy and that I like English.
Thank you,
Apple
I press
Send
. Most of my poems are about Mum or Nana or Rain and a trickle of fear runs through me as I wonder what Mr Gaydon will do with the poems. He could forward them to anyone he wanted. He could forward them to our school’s child protection officer.
I’m too jittery to read or write any more so I sit by the window waiting for Mum – watching. Every car that pulls up makes my heart race. Every click-clacking pair of shoes makes me crane forward to see who it is.
Then I start imagining Mum lying in a hospital bed after being attacked on the train or laid out on a slab of concrete, dead, because someone’s stabbed her. I can hardly keep the horrible thoughts from rolling in.
‘Where
is
she?’ I say aloud.
‘Maybe she went back to America and left us both here,’ Rain says. She turns a page in her book.
‘That’s not funny.’
‘Wasn’t a joke.’
A motorbike revs its engine. I watch it drive by.
Would Mum do something like that? Would she book a ticket to New York and leave us to fend for ourselves? She knows Nana would show up eventually. And maybe that’s her plan. Maybe it was her plan all along – to force Rain and I together and when she knew we were OK, dump us.
‘She’ll be here any second. Let’s stay calm,’ I suggest.
‘I am calm,’ Rain replies. She has almost finished the Roald Dahl book. ‘But if she doesn’t come back, can I stay with you?’ she asks.
‘She’ll come back,’ I say. She has to come back.
When seven o’clock arrives, I’ve convinced myself that Mum is in Brooklyn. But instead of dwelling on it, I keep busy. I make more Ready brek, this time with water because we’re out of milk. Rain won’t eat it. She finds half a cucumber to chew on instead. We sit opposite each other at the dining table, miserable and hungry.
‘We need money,’ Rain says.
‘I know,’ I say. My tummy rumbles and I look in the fridge again. There’s an onion, two beers, and a knob of butter. I take out one of the beers and open it. It tastes a bit like dirt, but it’s cold and fizzy and better than the Ready brek. I pour it into a clean glass.
‘I don’t mind cucumber, but Jenny needs formula,’ Rain says. Jenny is propped on her knee. She pats the doll’s head.
She still thinks that the flour she’s been using and which I’ve been restocking, is formula.
‘Jenny’s in good shape,’ I say.
‘I know. I’m only saying that in the morning we’ll need milk or formula. Right?’
‘Give it a rest, Rain.’
‘Why should I give it a rest?’
I rub my forehead. ‘I have enough to worry about, don’t you think?’
‘Just because you don’t care about Jenny, doesn’t mean I shouldn’t.’
I stare at her unbelieving. All day she’s had her head in a book and hardly bothered about the doll. Jenny probably had her nappy changed once since breakfast and none of us have been for a walk. But suddenly Jenny’s hungry and we all need to rally around taking care of her.
‘Get real,’ I say. I take another sip of beer.
Rain won’t give it up. ‘What do you mean, get real?’
I glare at her. ‘What do I
mean
? Well, in case you haven’t noticed, Mum’s missing, the school is on my back, we have no money for food or drink and your only concern is for Jenny.’
‘She’s a baby.’
‘Is she, Rain?’ I ask.
‘Yes, she is. She’s my baby.’
I roll my eyes. I can’t help it. Rain’s delusion is too much on top of everything. ‘You’re ten years old. When exactly did you have her?’ I ask.
‘Jenny’s my baby,’ Rain mutters.
I lower my voice. ‘No. She. Isn’t. You know she’s a doll. Don’t you?’
She holds up Jenny for my inspection. ‘She isn’t some doll,’ Rain says.
I grab Jenny and pull her to my face. I sniff her. ‘She smells like plastic, Rain,’ I say. And then I shake her. Hard.
Rain gasps.
‘She doesn’t
sound
like a real baby either. Not a murmur.’
‘Give her back,’ Rain groans.
‘Do you think she feels what a real baby feels?’ I ask.
Rain stares at me, frightened. ‘Don’t hurt her,’ she says.
‘I couldn’t if I tried. Can’t you see that she isn’t real? She isn’t
real
,’ I say.
Rain tries to snatch Jenny back. I hold the doll above my head.
‘Stop,’ Rain pleads.
But I can’t stop. I won’t. Rain needs to hear the truth. It’ll make everything easier for everyone.
I release my grip on Jenny and she drops to the floor. Rain starts to cry. And then I’m crying too. I look down at Jenny and, without thinking, kick her across the room. Jenny hits the wall and slides to the ground.
‘Jenny!’ Rain shrieks.
I move towards them. ‘Keep away from us! I hate you. I hate you, I hate you.’ Rain can hardly breathe.
I can’t believe what I’ve done. ‘I’m so sorry,’ I manage. And I am. Rain didn’t deserve it. And neither did Jenny.
I drop the beer bottle.
‘You’re a
monster
!’ Rain shouts. She dashes into our bedroom with Jenny in her arms. ‘I wish you’d never come to live here. I wish you were dead!’
‘Rain, wait,’ I say. No one’s ever hated me before. Not with such fire and pain. But I don’t go after her. I don’t know what to say. I can’t take back what I’ve done. And she’d be right never to speak to me again. As far as she’s concerned, I’ve tried to kill her child.
I slump on to the floor. Where is Mum and why isn’t she here to make sure nothing terrible like this happens? That’s her job – to take care of us and help us take care of each other. I want to call and leave a long, nasty message on her mobile. But I’m sobbing too hard to speak.
It’s dark when I wake. I glance at the display on the microwave – it’s five o’clock in the morning. I pull myself off the couch and run down to Mum’s bedroom. I push open her door. The room is empty. The duvet is untidily piled at the end of her bed where she left it. ‘Mum?’ I say aloud. But it’s pointless. She’s not here.
I sigh and go into my own room. I lie on my bunk in the dark, hugging a pillow.
‘Rain?’ I want her to talk to me or even shout at me. I don’t want to be alone. But if she can hear me, she doesn’t answer. She doesn’t move a muscle. And it’s so quiet in the room I think that maybe she’s holding her breath. ‘Rain.’
I stand on my tiptoes and scan the top bunk. Jenny is lying naked across the pillow. I pull back the duvet, expecting to find Rain tucked into the bottom corner.
The bunk’s empty.
‘Rain,’ I say again.
She wasn’t in Mum’s room or in the bathroom when I walked by. I look again in both rooms anyway, turning on as many lights as I can.
