Girls in Tears (3 page)

when people copy their ideas!

Russell’s flat is beautiful. It’s so big our whole house could fit inside it and it’s utterly pristine. There are huge cream sofas without a spot on them, Bohemian glass arranged on shelves in precise formation, and even the glossy magazines on the coffee table are laid out with geometric precision. If Russell’s dad and his girlfriend, Cynthia, ever have any children they are in for a big shock. If we let Eggs loose in this room for ten minutes heaven only knows what havoc he’d wreak.

“It’s beautiful,” I say politely, setting my grubby rucksack gingerly on the pale carpet.

“It’s boring, like a display in a furniture shop,” says Russell. “It’s not a
home
.”

Just for a moment he stops being my big boyfriend who’s two years ahead of me at school. He looks like a lonely little kid, his head hanging down, his hair falling in his eyes. I go to him and put my arms round him. I just want to comfort him, to show him I know what it feels like having to fit in with your dad’s girlfriend.

He misinterprets my gesture. His hands go round my waist and he pulls me tightly against him and starts kissing me. His hands are in my hair, his finger stroking my ear, and then he very gently nibbles the lobe and starts kissing my neck down at the very sensitive part where it meets my shoulders. Then his hands are carefully unbuttoning my school shirt. . . .

“No! Don’t, Russell. Don’t do that, please don’t.”

It feels so wonderful—but I’m a bit scared. I don’t want to go too far. And what if Russell’s dad or Cynthia comes home early and discovers us thrashing around on their splendid cream sofa?

“We could go to my room,” Russell whispers in my ear.

“No! Look, I’ve told you . . . I don’t want to,”

“You
do
want to,” says Russell.

“Yes, OK, of course I do—but I’m still not going to.”

“Even though we love each other?” Russell says, taking my hand and kissing the ring on my finger.

“Even so,” I say, wriggling away from him and trying to smooth my clothes and compose myself, though I’m hot and trembling and I love him so much that I don’t want to be sensible in the slightest. . . .

I do go to his room. I say it’s just because I want to see what it’s like. It’s fascinating, not scrubby schoolboy at all—no mess of old socks and tacky mags and congealed snacks. Russell’s room is ultra-hip and cool, with cream blinds and dark brown carpet and a guitar and a soul singer poster. He’s got a fantastic sloping desk and high white stool with a spotlight overhead, and the most amazing paints and pastels and colored pencils and a stock of sketchpads and drawing books and some sweet working drawings of a little cartoon elephant. It’s a variation of my own little Ellie Elephant, which I draw all over my school jotter and squiggle beside my name when I write letters.

“It’s my Ellie Elephant!”

“Well, it’s
an
elephant,” says Russell.

There’s a pink leaflet paper-clipped to the top drawing. I have a peer at it, though Russell is trying to pull me away, lifting my hair and kissing my neck insistently. It’s an art competition for children, but there’s a section for teenagers, too. You have to invent your own cartoon character. The winner has a proper animation made of their work and it will maybe be shown on television. And Nicola Sharp is one of the judges! She’s my all-time favorite children’s illustrator—I love her Funky Fairy books.

“Oh wow, Russell! Why didn’t you tell me about the competition? I want to go in for it too.”

“You’re too late, Ellie. It’s past the closing date. I’ve already sent mine off.”

“So what cartoon character did you invent?”

“Well, obviously . . . ,” says Russell, indicating all the little elephants.

“But that’s
my
character!” I say.

“No it isn’t. You draw your Ellie Elephant with much bigger ears, and you don’t do the trunk so wrinkly, and the expression’s totally different.”

“Not really. Look, that’s
exactly
how I do my Ellie Elephant when she’s happy, sort of kicking her leg up sideways and her trunk high in the air,” I say, stabbing at his drawing pad with my finger.

“Well, that’s the way
all
happy elephants look,” says Russell. He taps me gently on the nose. “Don’t go all huffy, Ellie. You don’t have the copyright on all cartoon elephants.”

He tries to kiss me and I eventually respond, but nowhere near as enthusiastically as before. I feel as if he’s stolen my Ellie Elephant from me. She’s
mine
. I feel like a toddler and someone’s snatched my favorite cuddly toy. I know I’m being childish but I feel like bursting into tears. It seems so sneaky of him to have kept quiet about this competition. We could have worked on it together. But I don’t want to do that now. I’m going to go in for the competition myself. And I’m not conferring with Russell. I’m not even going to tell him.

Russell tries to get me to lie down with him on his dark brown bed but the mood has gone. It’s his turn to go a bit huffy. Still, he quite likes it when I have a good peer at all the books on his shelves. He’s got lots of art books, well-thumbed Harry Potters and Philip Pullmans, all the Discworlds,
The Lord of the Rings,
several Stephen Kings, some Irvine Welsh and Will Self but also old tattered Thomas the Tank Engines. When I have a little nose in his cupboard I find several tattered teddies and a tiny army of toy soldiers in the woolly dungeon of his sweater drawer.

We’re actually in the middle of a complicated war game, with the toy soldiers spread out all over the carpet, when Cynthia gets in from work. I think she’s
lovely
—very glamorous even though she’s getting on a bit, with red hair and a smart cream suit and a lot of gold jewelry. She tries
so
hard, fixing us proper coffee and special American brownies, asking all sorts of questions, trying to keep the conversation going. I do my best but Russell barely bothers to grunt his replies.

I wonder if I was as bad as this when Anna first came to live with Dad. Maybe I was
worse
. It must have been hell for Anna, especially when she was only a student herself. I’m going to try harder to help her. She’s working too hard with her knitwear designs and Dad’s being the typically unreconstructed male, grumbling and groaning and acting up worse than Eggs.

So I’m chatty with Cynthia and help her start preparing the supper. Russell acts annoyed, wanting me to play around on his computer with him. He says he’ll teach me how to do all these fancy graphics. He always wants to
teach
me stuff. If he knows it all, why does he steal
my
Ellie Elephant?

No, that’s mean. As if it really matters anyway. All that matters is that I love Russell and he loves me. When Russell calls from the living room for the third time I get up to go to him, though I raise my eyebrows at Cynthia.

“I’d better go and see what he’s on about,” I say apologetically.

“I know,” she says, smiling wryly. “They snap their fingers and we’re silly enough to jump.”

Still, when Russell’s dad gets home it’s obvious who’s in charge in their relationship. Cynthia’s all sweet girly charm and acts like she’ll do whatever he says, but somehow she gets
her
choice of wine,
her
favorite program on the television, and
he’s
the one who takes over the cooking of the meal.

I’m fascinated. I wonder if Russell is going to end up like his dad. They certainly
look
like each other. Brian, Russell’s dad, has got the same fair floppy hair, the same direct gaze, the same stance, the same walk—he’s just a bit more lined and jowly and a stone or two heavier.

Brian calls me into the kitchen, asking me all sorts of stuff, laughing and joking, almost flirting with me, which feels a bit weird. Russell isn’t very happy about this either and comes out to get me. Brian takes his time with the meal, but it’s marvelous when it’s eventually served. We start with fresh figs and Parma ham, then there’s a big pasta dish with all sorts of seafood, and then a proper crème brûlée pudding. My dad can cook but his specialty is your basic spag bol. He certainly doesn’t do any fancy stuff.

There is also wine, and I get a glass! OK, not a very
big
glass, but it’s lovely to be given it all the same. It’s such a grown-up meal. Our meals at home aren’t a bit like this, mostly because Eggs is always yelling with his mouth full and slurping his orange juice and waving his knife and fork around and spilling stuff all over the place. We don’t really talk properly at mealtimes, not to discuss stuff. Brian and Russell have this long involved conversation about politics, for God’s sake. I get a bit anxious. I feel I should have my say too, but if I’m totally honest I have to admit I don’t know a thing about politics. I mean, I’m into saving the environment and whales and whatever and obviously I want world peace and respect for everyone regardless of race, religion or sex, but I’m well aware that my political thoughts are as woolly as one of Anna’s sweaters.

Cynthia talks about equal rights for women and their changing role in the modern world. She asks me what I want to do when I leave school. I say I want to go to art school just like Russell. I quickly see this is a
big
mistake. Brian goes on about this being a complete waste of time and why should anyone spend three or four years daubing paint about and what on earth did that qualify you to do? You’d just end up teaching art yourself.

“Ellie’s dad teaches at the college,” Russell says sharply.

Brian looks embarrassed. “I’m sorry, Ellie. I wish I hadn’t said all that now.”

“It’s OK. That’s exactly what my dad says too,” I say.

“What about your mum?”

I swallow. “Well, my real mum died ages ago. She actually met my dad at art school. So did Anna. She’s my stepmum. She
isn’t
a teacher. She designs sweaters for children. She started off designing just for this magazine but she’s diversifying now, doing all sorts of stuff for other people— woolly toys, adult knitwear, whatever.”

“Where does she sell her knitting? Craft fairs?” Brian asked.

“Oh no, she sells through shops. Special children’s shops mostly. There was an article about her in last week’s
Guardian,
and one of her sweaters was in a feature on children’s fashion in
Harper’s,
” I tell them, slightly resenting the craft fair remark.

Cynthia gets very excited and runs and finds her last month’s
Harper’s,
flicking through until she discovers Anna’s little deck chair sweater with all these baby bunnies sunbathing and eating carrots like ice cream cones.

“I love it! It’s so cute! And she’s now doing an adult range? I’d like one for me for holidays.”

Even Brian seems impressed that Anna’s designs are in the papers and glossy magazines. I suppose it
is
impressive. Anna’s become successful so quickly. You’d think Dad would be more thrilled. I suppose it’s a bit unsettling for him.
He’s
always been the professional—he used to teach Anna, for goodness’ sake. And yet he’s stayed a teacher, whereas Anna is a real designer. . . . Is that why he’s being so grumpy with her nowadays? Is Dad simply
jealous
?

when things go wrong at home

It’s very late when Brian drives me back home. I’m a bit scared that Dad will be furious because it’s a school night. I take a deep breath when I let myself in. I wait for Dad to come pounding out into the hall, shouting at me. Nothing happens. I find Anna sitting all by herself in the living room. She’s not sketching or doing little cross-stitch calculations or knitting up samples. She’s not reading or listening to music. The television isn’t on. She’s just sitting, staring into space.

“Anna?”

She blinks at me as if she can hardly see me. “Hello, Ellie,” she says in a tiny voice.

“Anna, what is it? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. I’m fine. Well, did you have a good time round at Russell’s?”

Normally I’d want to launch into a long girly discussion about Russell and his flat and Russell and his stepmother and Russell and his dad and Russell Russell Russell. If my mouth had a word count then Russell would definitely come out tops. But for once I need to talk about someone else.

“Never mind Russell,” I say firmly. “What’s up? Where’s Dad?”

“I don’t know,” says Anna—and she suddenly bursts into tears.

I sit down beside her and put my arms round her. Anna sobs desperately on my shoulder. She’s usually such a controlled and coping person that it’s scary seeing her let go like this. I’m trying to be calm and comforting to help her but my heart is thumping and all sorts of fears are flying around inside my head like little black bats.

“He didn’t come home from the college. I phoned his office but there’s no one there. Then I phoned his mobile but it’s switched off,” Anna weeps.

“Do you think he’s had an accident?” I whisper. In my head I see Dad lying in a coma on a hospital bed while doctors and nurses struggle to revive him.

“I don’t think so. He’d have his wallet and diary with him. Someone would have found my name and number and phoned me,” says Anna.

“Then where
is
he?” Dad’s sometimes late back home. He takes it into his head to go out for a drink or two with his students and sometimes they add up to three or four or more. But the pubs will be shut now. It’s nearly half past eleven. What’s he
doing
?

I see another picture of Dad in my head. He’s in bed again—but this time he’s with a young pretty student. . . .

I shake my head to get rid of the image. Anna has her hand over her mouth, her eyes agonized. The same picture’s in her head too.

“Maybe there’s some crisis with one of the students? Personal problems?” I suggest desperately.

Oh yes, Dad’s getting personal with one of the students, all right. A tear rolls down Anna’s cheek. I find a tissue and dab at her gently.

“Don’t, Anna, please. I can’t bear it,” I whisper.

“
I
can’t bear it,” Anna says, wrapping her arms round herself, rocking as if she’s in terrible pain. “How can he do this to me, Ellie? He knows how much I love him, how much it hurts. Why does he want to hurt me?”

“Oh come on, Anna.” I pluck the sleeve of the sweater she designed herself. She stares down at the black wool, fingering the fringing.

“OK, OK, I know I’ve been ratty lately. I know it annoys your dad when there suddenly isn’t any bloody butter. It annoys me too! But surely that’s no reason to stay out all night?”

“It’s not all night. He’ll be back soon. And it’s not because of the butter. Or you being ratty. It’s your job. Don’t you see, Anna? He can’t stand it.”

“But he was quite supportive at first. He knew I was so bored just staying at home, especially after Eggs started school. He
encouraged
me—”

“Yeah, but that was when he thought it was just going to be some little sideline—Anna’s new hobby to earn a bit of pin money. But now you’ve taken off, you’ve become really successful—”

“And I don’t know how I’m going to cope. I need to expand, take on all sorts of staff. I need someone to look after Eggs when I’m tied up. I asked your dad if he’d pick him up from school more often. I mean, it’s not often he’s teaching late afternoon. But he practically blew his top and said he was a lecturer, not a child minder.”

“See! It
is
what’s getting to him.”

“But most men share child care now.”

“Not old men like Dad! He’s improved a bit. I mean, when I was little he didn’t even put me to bed. I think he’d have passed out if he’d had to mop me up or feed me. My mum did it all.”

“Your mum did everything,” Anna sobs. “She’s the real true love of your dad’s life, I know that. I know I can’t ever replace her. I don’t
want
to—but you’ve no idea how awful it is knowing that you’re always going to come second best, with him, with you—”

“Oh, Anna. Mum was
di ferent
. I’m sure Dad loves you just as much. And look at Eggs, he absolutely worships you. You’re definitely first with him.”

“Not anymore, not after I yelled at him this morning. I tried to make it up to him after school today but he acted so
wary,
as if I was about to explode any second. Then I had to see these three women who are going to knit up the bunny designs. I’d so much hoped your dad would be home to look after Eggs, but he didn’t come and I was starting to get worried about him. One of these wretched women didn’t seem skilled enough and I don’t think she’ll be able to cope. Another one’s expecting a baby soon so maybe she won’t be able to cope either. All the time I was trying to discuss things Eggs kept showing off and interrupting and driving me crazy so in the end I shouted at him. He ran away and hid. It took me ages to find him, under his bed, covered in dust. That’s another thing—I never have time to do any proper house-work. Poor little Eggs cried and said I was a mean mummy and he wanted his old mummy back—”

“Oh, Anna!” I can’t help laughing.

She starts giggling weakly too, though the tears are still running down her cheeks. “It’s not really funny,” she says. “Maybe . . . maybe I should give it all up, the knitwear design? That’s really the whole answer, isn’t it? It’s not fair on Eggs. Maybe it’s not fair on you or your dad either.”

“That’s rubbish!” I take hold of Anna’s shoulders and give her a little shake. “Come on, Anna, don’t be mad! It’s wonderful that you’ve been so successful. You couldn’t possibly give any of it up, not now.”

“I don’t think I could bear it, I must admit. I know I’m tired all the time, and worried about getting everything done, but you’ve no idea how great it makes me feel, seeing the finished result, especially when it turns out just the way I wanted.”

“There! So you can’t possibly let Dad stop you.”

“But the thing is, I
love
him. And you know and I know what he’s up to right this minute, and I can’t
stand
it.” Anna starts crying again.

“Look, let’s go to bed, come on,” I say, helping her to her feet and leading her to the door.

“What am I going to do now? Lie all by myself on my side of the bed, staring up at the ceiling?” Anna weeps as we go up the stairs. “And then what am I going to do when he eventually comes home? Pretend to be asleep? I’ve done that before, Ellie, just to keep the peace, but I don’t think I can do it anymore. It hurts too much.”

It’s a relief when Eggs starts wailing sleepily, calling for Anna.

“Oh God,” Anna groans, but she straightens up, wipes her eyes and glides into his bedroom. “What’s up, little Eggs?” she murmurs softly. “Is it your cold, my poppet? Let Mummy blow that poor old nose.”

Eggs snuffles something about a nasty man and Anna there-theres him and tells him there’s no nasty man, it’s all a silly old dream. I listen, feeling sick and shaky, wishing I was as young as Eggs and could be as easily reassured.

I hate being old enough to know what’s really going on between Dad and Anna. I want to be told that they’re very happy together, that my dad’s not a nasty man and this is all a bad dream and soon we’ll all wake up properly and Dad will be here, his arm round Anna, smiling and whistling and larking about, his old happy self.

Long after I go to my own bed I hear Dad come in and creep up the stairs. I wait, straining my ears. Then I hear the whispering start. My stomach turns over. I pull the sheets over my head and hunch up really small, trying to blot it all out.

I pretend Mum is still here for me. She’s in bed with me, cuddling me close, telling me Myrtle the Mouse stories. And then slowly, gradually, as I think about Myrtle, she starts to scamper about in my head, happy at first, her blue whiskers twitching, tail at a perky angle. She lives in a doll’s house with Mama Mouse and Papa Mouse. But Papa Mouse scampers off and doesn’t come back and Mama Mouse has a new litter of baby mice and has no time for Myrtle—so she packs her spotty nightie and her whisker brush and her dormouse doll, makes herself a big cheese sandwich, and sets off into the big wide world. . . .

I fall asleep and dream Myrtle Mouse stories. I wake up very early. I sit up and listen. The house is quiet. I can’t hear Anna crying or Dad arguing. Eggs seems to be sound asleep. I twist my ring round and round my finger, wondering if it’s all over now—or only just beginning.