Letters From My Sister (16 page)

CHAPTER THIRTY

Mum and I are watching an old black-and-white film on television,
Roman Holiday
with Audrey Hepburn. Mum’s making a new tapestry cushion. She can never sit still and do nothing. Her colour is returning and her mobility improving each day with physiotherapy.

She looks pretty in a rose-patterned scarf and large dangling earrings that I bought for her. When Mark came down for the day, Bells and I took him shopping. ‘They look like chandeliers hanging off your ears,’ he said, when I held the earrings up to my face. It was lovely seeing him. I don’t think he realized quite how much his visit had meant to us.

‘Katie, you need to think about going back to London,’ Mum says to me out of the blue.

‘What?’

‘You need to go home.’

‘No way. I can’t, not yet. Do you want another drink? Hot water with lemon?’

‘I’ll be all right,’ she reassures me. ‘I feel guilty, keeping you from your friends and your life.’

‘That doesn’t matter. God, nothing matters except you getting better.’

Mum puts her needle down and turns to me. ‘You’ve been wonderful but you can’t stay here for ever.’

‘But who’s going to make you breakfast in bed and cook? Dad can’t cook. No, we can’t leave you, not yet.’

‘I’m getting better all the time and your father is a good nurse. It’s time you and Bells went home.’

‘I’m not sure,’ I say nervously. The truth is the idea of leaving fills me with dread.

‘I’m sure. You need to start thinking about where you are going to live,’ she says with concern.

‘I don’t know …’

‘Katie.’ Mum puts her sewing on the table. ‘I can’t thank you enough for everything you’ve done.’

‘I haven’t done much.’

‘You have. Katie,’ Mum says again, ‘I’ve been a dreadful mother.’

I feel a rush of blood coming to the surface.

Yes, you have. You were too wrapped up in your work, you distanced yourself from me and put all your time into Bells, saving only a crumb for me. I felt invisible most of the time. I’ve always felt second-best with you. I never seemed to be good enough; it felt like you didn’t want to be involved in my life. That’s what I would have said to her six weeks ago. Yet none of it really matters now.

‘Mum, don’t …’

‘No! I want to. Let me.’ She pauses. ‘I’ve never been any good at saying how I feel. No better than you in fact.’ She laughs painfully. ‘I close up like an oyster.’ Mum’s voice is cracking around the edge like a broken shell. ‘If I can’t say it now, I’ll never be able to.’

‘OK, tell me.’

‘I’ve never let myself accept that I didn’t give you enough time, that you needed me as much as Bells, just in a different way. I should never have said how lucky you were not to have her problems, it was the easy way out. I didn’t applaud you in your own right. But look at you now. A beautiful successful woman …’

‘I’m not.’

‘You are. I’ve missed out on such a large chunk of your life, and I want to make up for it. I’m so sorry.’

‘You had a difficult, demanding child. I should have realized how hard it was for you and Dad instead of thinking about myself all the time. I admire you both so much for bringing us up, with no help. I admire you more than I can say.’

‘It wasn’t good enough, though. I’m your mother,’ she says, full of self-reproach. ‘If I can’t look after you, who can? I know I retreated into my own world. My work became everything because it took me away from the everyday grind. Then you left home and suddenly you didn’t need us any more. I’ve carried this guilt for neglecting you all my life. I buried it in my conscience.’

Mum stands up and walks slowly out of the room. ‘I’ve got something for you,’ she says. ‘Stay there.’

She returns, holding a small package wrapped in white tissue paper.

‘Mum, you didn’t have to.’

‘Open it.’ She sits next to me as I unwrap the present. It is an oval silver box with an inlay of tortoiseshell and inside is her precious tortoiseshell comb. ‘My mother gave both of them to me as a wedding present.’

‘I love this box, it’s beautiful. And your comb … you always wear it.’

‘Well, it seemed perfect timing,’ she says, adjusting her scarf. ‘Besides, I want you to have them. It’s a thank-you for all you’ve done.’

I put the box down and hug Mum.

‘Why did it take us so long to talk? Why did it have to take this to bring us together?’ she asks, holding me close.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Back to normality. Back to stocktaking, ordering from suppliers, organizing the next fashion show. Back to yoga and swimming, going out again and socializing. Back to the daily grind of London; noise, traffic, rude people pushing and barging. It is terrifying.

I have moved in with Emma and Jonnie. They rent a small house with a garden near Turnham Green Terrace, and Emma insisted I stay in their spare room until the New Year, just before they get married. Being with her has made the move far less daunting and it’s ideal when they live so close to my shop and so near to Mark. I need to call him soon to let him know we’re temporary neighbours.

*

This evening I’m going to Jonnie’s parents’ home near Lisson Grove for supper. Since being back in London I haven’t seen that many people. Last week I went over to Sam’s to pick up my sewing machine. It was the last thing I had to collect. I still have keys so I went during my lunch hour when he was at work. His house looked exactly the same, not that I had expected it to change. Everything spotless and in the appropriate place. It didn’t look like I had ever lived there. I put the keys through the door. ‘’Bye, Sam,’ I said. As I predicted, he hasn’t been in touch since he heard the news about Mum.

As I wait in the sitting-room for the taxi, I look at Emma and Jonnie’s engagement photos taken in Battersea Park. They are in black and gilt cardboard folding frames. They remind me of those cards I used to be given with the end-of-year school photographs. ‘“The entire photograph was ruined because Katie decided to pull up her skirt and show us her knickers,”’ Mum would read out. She always waited for an explanation, but I was sure I could see a small smile trying not to surface. Just thinking about home makes me miss it. It’s ironic. All I wanted to do was leave home when I was a teenager. Now, it’s the only place I want to be. I felt safe there, harboured in a cocoon. I felt needed.

The day I left, Dad and I stood quietly on the platform waiting for my train to arrive, both locked in our own thoughts. I was thinking about being a child again, climbing on to the train with my shiny red suitcase to see Aunt Agnes, and Dad waving goodbye as the train started to move.

‘I don’t want to, I’m not going,’ I said as the train approached.

Dad smiled as he brushed a strand of hair away from my eyes and tucked it behind my ear, like he used to do when I was young. ‘You have to go.’ He opened the door and helped me in with my luggage. ‘Mum and I will be fine on our own.’

Bells had left the day before. She was happy to go back. She missed college, her friends, her football and her normal routine. I hadn’t missed anything, and that scared me. ‘Who’s going to cook for you, Dad?’ I called out as the train slowly started pulling away.

He waved his hand at me. ‘I’ll manage without Bells, don’t worry.’

I laughed. ‘No more secrets, ever!’ I shouted out of the window. ‘We tell each other everything, good and bad. Great or bloody awful!’ Strange the way our family does this. Dad and I had what seemed like an eternity of time waiting on the platform together, and now that I was actually going, the words were tumbling out.

‘Everything,’ he agreed.

‘Promise?’

‘I promise.’

We blew kisses. Dad’s figure quickly faded into the distance. He was the only person left standing on the platform, still waving, until he was out of sight.

I open one of the photographs again. Emma is sitting down, Jonnie behind her with his arms wrapped around her shoulders. She’s wearing a red dress that contrasts with her cropped dark brown hair and brown eyes. He’s wearing a pale blue shirt to go with his blue eyes. It’s all very colour-coordinated and grown up. The doorbell finally rings and I put the photograph back on the mantelpiece.

*

Emma hands me a large glass of wine. Perfect. Jonnie leads me into the sitting-room. ‘You must meet my parents,’ he says. They are standing expectantly by the fireplace. ‘Mum, Dad, meet Katie.’

‘Call me Will.’ He is a big beefy man so it’s forgiven that I nearly laugh out loud when I hear his soprano voice.

‘Call me Hermione.’ Jonnie’s mother steps forward to shake my hand. She must come up to about my waist. She looks like a little mouse and is wearing these peculiar multicoloured pointed shoes that curl up at the toes like the end of a gondola.

‘What do you do, Katie?’ he enquires, wide-eyed and smiling. I am still trying to keep a straight face. Emma did tell me that Hermione was a pain, but why didn’t she warn me about that voice? She must have known how I’d react.

‘I own a clothes shop,’ I tell him.

‘Oh, how interesting,’ he squeaks, touching his navy V-neck jumper with both hands.

Think of a sad story, sad story, I’m telling myself as I look at them both goggle-eyed.

‘What’s it called?’ Hermione chirps enthusiastically. ‘I know someone who works in fashion. She gets to travel abroad to Paris. I think she works for Gucci or Givenchy, something like that.’

‘Well,’ I cough, ‘it’s called FIB.’

‘Fib?’

‘It stands for Female In Black.’

‘Oh,’ she says, her voice heavy with disappointment. ‘I think black is so dreary, all you young things wear it,’ she comments, scanning my outfit. I am wearing a soft black rounded-neck jumper with sequins edging the cuffs. I get distracted as Jonnie hands me a plate of mixed nuts, and winks at me.

‘So, you’re living with Jonnie and Emma, I gather?’ Hermione has lost all interest in my career, then.

‘Yes, that’s right,’ I say, and then add, ‘For the moment, that is,’ when I can see from her face that she is faintly dismayed. ‘Until I find my own place.’

‘You’re not married then, Katie?’

‘No,’ I say, and feel compelled to add, ‘Not yet.’

‘Oh, what a shame,’ peeps Will, his big moon face looking downcast.

‘No, not a shame. I’m only twenty-nine!’

Hermione’s mouth shrivels like a prune. ‘But you young people wait for so long. I married Will when I was twenty. I had three children by the time I was your age. You’re all the same. I mean, look at Jonnie, he took his time,’ she grumbles.

I am tempted to say she probably had to marry her husband quickly before he changed his mind and did a runner.

‘What do your parents do?’ she continues.

‘Well, my father works at Sotheby’s,’ I tell them.

Hermione graciously acknowledges this, saying it must be a very interesting job. I can almost see her conferring a tick of approval. ‘How about your mother?’

I clear my throat. ‘My mother’s recently had a terrible time, she had a brain tumour.’

‘Oh I am sorry. How awful for you all.’

‘It was awful, terrible … but she’s OK now. She got through it, she’s doing well,’ I tell Hermione proudly. ‘It will take a good six months to a year before she gets back to normal totally, but she’s very lucky. We all are.’

As I say it, I can hardly believe it’s true. Mum pulled through. I can see her now, sitting at the kitchen table, her brightly patterned red and gold silk scarf coiled around her head, reading out to Dad how to cook a fish pie for their supper.

‘Isn’t she brave,’ Hermione comments.

‘Yes, she is. She took a risk having the operation, but to be honest, she had no choice.’

‘Flake the fish, darling,’ I can hear her repeat because Dad is chopping it instead. He can only really cook scrambled eggs.

‘Well done her,’ Will chirps.

‘Do you have any brothers or sisters?’ Will’s mother enquires hopefully.

I take one more glug of wine to brace myself for the question that I know is coming next.

‘A sister.’

‘Is she married?’

‘No.’

‘Stop being so nosy!’ Jonnie calls from the kitchen. ‘She thinks everyone over twenty-one should be married. Times have changed, Mum!’

‘Oh. What does she do?’

Of course she was going to ask that. Asking people what they do is a kind of nervous tic with the middle classes. ‘Well, Bells is a slightly unusual case. Er … she was born …’

‘Bells? Is that what she’s called?’

‘Sorry. Bells – Isabel. We’ve always called her Bells.’

‘Oh I see. Why is she unusual?’

‘She lives in a kind of community, it sounds like a farm but it’s not,’ I add.

‘She works on a farm?’ Hermione creases her forehead in confusion. ‘Is she a volunteer?’

‘No,’ I say, twisting the silver ring on my finger. ‘She lives there, it’s her home.’

‘Right,’ says Jonnie’s mother, looking even more puzzled.

‘It’s a special home for …’ I pause, thinking of the correct way to word it, ‘people with disabilities.’

If Hermione was in one of those hamster wheels that roll around the floor, she’d be spinning out of control by now. ‘You mean, she’s retarded?’

‘No,’ I say stiffly. ‘No, she’s not. She is Bells. Our Bells.’

‘Oh dear, oh dear. What a shame,’ Will pipes up.

‘Poor, poor thing.’

‘She is not a poor thing,’ I voice defiantly. ‘She’s wonderful. She’s a terrific cook, loves her music and football. There’s nothing she doesn’t know about the Beatles or Stevie Wonder. She has this magical sense of humour, too. Bells is her own person, and if you told her she was a poor thing she would hit you hard in the balls.’ I want to take back the last bit but it’s too late. Jonnie roars with laughter; I hear Emma choke and then let out a snort. I look at Will and Hermione but their expressions are still pitying. They aren’t even listening.

AND I HAVE CANCER OF THE BOWEL, I want to shout, pointing to my cigarettes regretfully, but bite down on my lip hard. When I start to envisage Bells hitting Will hard in the balls, I have to try hard not to laugh.

Until other guests arrive, I change the subject by talking about the photographer Emma found for the wedding. Has Hermione seen the picture of the chocolate cake she has chosen which will be garnished with white flowers? What is the mother-of-the-groom going to wear? I am going to design and make Emma’s veil. Hermione tells me she loves winter weddings because that’s when she got married. All fun, pretty things to talk about.

*

‘What’s a pretty girl like you doing on her own tonight?’ my taxi-driver asks as he turns on the engine. Emma bundled me into the cab because she’s staying with Jonnie and his parents tonight. ‘Do you have a boyfriend?’

This cab-driver is very forward, isn’t he? ‘I have one, thanks,’ I hiccup, deciding it’s much more fun to lie. ‘I’m afraid I can’t talk too much about it, though,’ I say, crouching forward into the space between his seat and the front passenger one. ‘A bit complicated. Wouldn’t want it making headline news. We have to leave separately, too risky otherwise with the paparazzi.’ I sink back into the padded leather seat and hiccup once more. ‘Oops, sorry ’bout that.’

‘I don’t believe you, man,’ he laughs. ‘Should I be getting your autograph?’

‘OK,’ I concede. ‘I’m on my own. I’ve just split up.’

‘I knew it,’ he exclaims. ‘I can sense things. Oh, that’s sad. Too bad. I missed my wife when we split, you know what I mean?’

‘I’m a bad picker of men. What’s your name?’

‘Fourque.’

‘For what?’

‘Fourque,’ he says and proceeds to spell it out. ‘F for Freddie, O for orange, U for umbrella …’

‘Well, Fourque, I pick men who are no good in the end. My second-to-last boyfriend was a commitment freak, and my last one was shallow.’

‘You pick the vermin?’

‘What?’

‘Vermin. That’s what I call all those people who aren’t any good. There are a lot of them out there, you know what I mean? You have to be careful.’

‘Vermin! I like that. I have this picture of ratlike people scurrying around with red flashing lights to show they are hazardous.’

‘Yeah, rodents, man,’ he laughs with me.

‘Rodents!’ I shout out of the window, feeling the fresh cold air blast my face.

‘Thing is, I wish they did have red flashing lights. You see these well-dressed nice-looking people around, but half of them are probably vermin too. I wish you could tell them apart.’

‘What about you now?’ I ask, sitting forward again.

‘What about me? Well, I want to make it in the music world. I don’t want to do this for the rest of my life,’ he says, pointing to the steering wheel. ‘I have an interview next week. It’s like my chance to do something I’ve always wanted to do. You have to take it, don’t you? You know what I mean?’

‘I know
exactly
what you mean,’ I say with certainty. ‘Life is way too short to waste it. Whoah, slow down, stop here.’ I want to buy another bottle of wine from the off-licence.

I clamber out and pay him through the front passenger window. He smiles at me and his eyes light up like fairy lights. ‘Will you pray for me to get the job?’ he asks. ‘And I’ll pray for you to find the right man.’ I find myself nodding because I like him. ‘Stay away from the vermin,’ he adds.

*

I head into the off-licence and stare at the various bottles of wine in front of me. In the end I take any old one and totter to the till. ‘Thank you,’ I say, clutching the carrier bag. ‘Have a fine day!’

‘Katie?’ I hear.

I stop and turn round. I know that voice. I tilt my head at him. He’s wearing a cord jacket and holding a bottle of water and a large packet of barbecue-flavour crisps.

‘Mark.’ I smile, unable to conceal my delight at seeing him.

‘What are you doing here?’ he asks.

‘I live here.’ I explain I am staying with Emma temporarily.

‘That’s great. How are you? And how’s your mother?’

‘She’s not here.’ Why did I say that?

Mark looks at me strangely. ‘I have to pay for this, hang on a sec. Don’t go anywhere.’ He delves into his pocket to find some notes and loose change.

I tell him I’ll wait outside and do a quick drunken skip on the pavement. This is turning out to be a much better evening than I thought. Hallelujah!

We walk home, me cursing that we’ll be there in thirty seconds. Why can’t we live at least a mile away? ‘When did you get back?’ he asks.

‘Five days ago. I would have called but I’ve had so much to do in the shop, a lot of catching up, you know what it’s like. I’m sorry, I should have …’

‘Don’t worry, I understand. Well, this is me,’ he says, standing outside a black door with two steps leading up to it. ‘But I’ll walk you home.’