Letters From My Sister (5 page)

The entire floor is covered with clothes, joined by a tattered poetry book, a sketchpad, a small wooden case of oil paints, a collection of CDs and a photograph album. I take a deep breath and bend down to pick the mess off the floor. ‘Bells!’ I shout. ‘Turn it down! It’s so loud in here.’ I climb on to the bed. ‘What are you sticking the posters down with? You’re not putting pins in the walls, are you?’ Oh, God, she is. ‘Bells, don’t put pins in the walls!’

‘Why?’

‘It leaves a hole.’

She continues to push a pin into the white paint.

‘Bells, hey! Don’t do that. What did I just say?’

‘We do in Wales. Mum lets me too.’

I look down at the bedspread. ‘I don’t care what you do in Wales, you’re staying with Sam and me now.’

‘Katie bossy,’ she says.

I shrug. ‘Bells, can you take your boots off? Sam likes you to take your shoes off when you come into the house.’ She is still wearing these peculiar little pixie boots.

‘Why?’ she asks, and then starts to use the bed as a trampoline, while telling me that in Wales they have one in the garden and Ted can jump the highest, apparently.

‘What’s going on?’ I hear from behind. I spin round on the bed and almost lose my balance.

‘Hello,’ Bells says, extending her small hand. ‘You handsome.’

Sam looks at her strangely. ‘What did she say?’ He looks around. ‘This room’s a bloody pigsty.’

When Bells makes pig-like noises I want to disappear under the floorboards.

‘Is this your …’ He can hardly get the words out.

‘This is my sister Isabel. Bells.’

‘Hello, you Sam?’ she says again, still offering her small pale hand.

He shakes it, limply. ‘This is Bells?’ He looks around the room again, despair written over his face.

I nod. ‘Sam, I’ll tidy the room later, don’t worry.’

He stares at the posters. ‘She hasn’t put drawing pins in the wall? Tell me she hasn’t, Katie?’

I jump off the bed, rush towards him. ‘I’m sorry, I’ll deal with it, honey, I promise.’

Sam puts his head into his hands.

‘What’s that burning smell?’ he shouts above the noise, then marches over to the stereo and turns off the music, followed by the television. ‘Jesus Christ, even my grandfather doesn’t need the snooker on so loudly.’

‘No like Sam,’ Bells says.

‘Bells! Don’t be rude.’ Thankfully I don’t think he understood what she said. He’s still sniffing the air with a look of disgust. ‘The chips,’ I yelp, and dart out of the room.

‘Fucking hell, can today get
any
worse?’ I hear Sam cursing as he runs after me.

*

It’s been a long day when finally I make my way upstairs to bed. The chips burned and Sam hated the mushy peas. ‘Who eats mushy peas anyway?’ he protested.

I looked in Bells’s direction and he shrugged. He attempted to ask her a few questions about the train journey. ‘I haven’t got a clue what she just said,’ he kept on repeating when Bells was staring at him for a response. She started to hit the kitchen table with her fork in frustration, repeating her questions in vain.

‘If you don’t understand Bells, just pretend you do,’ I tried to persuade him after supper.

I know Sam is still angry with me for not telling him about Bells and I don’t blame him. What was I thinking? He has gone out for a few drinks with Maguire.

I turn off the light and close my eyes. He couldn’t get out of the house quick enough.

*

I scream when I see a small figure silhouetted at the end of my bed.

‘Bells, what are you doing?’ I sit up abruptly. ‘Go back to bed.’ When I get a glazed response, I jump up and shake her awake.

I can hear Mum coming upstairs and then pacing down our creaky corridor in her floaty nightdress and bed-jacket. ‘You shouldn’t wake her up,’ she scolds me, ‘if it happens again take her back to her bedroom. Bells darling, do you want to go to the loo before you go back to bed?’

‘That’s right,’ she says, lifting up her white cotton nightie and crouching on the floor.

‘NO!’ Mum and I cry together. Mum starts to laugh, and so do I. And then Bells copies us, doing her mad-lady-locked-up-in-the-attic
Jane Eyre
laugh.

*

I feel disorientated as I turn on the light and look at my watch. It’s only midnight. I shiver. I can hear both Mum and Bells now, as if it were yesterday.

The house is deathly quiet. When we were children, Bells used to sleepwalk almost every night. Mum had to put thick white bars over her bedroom window. I step out of bed and walk down the corridor, towards Bells’s room. I find myself opening the door, the light glaring out at me. Mum had told me Bells still hates sleeping in the dark and that I must keep a small light on in the corner of her bedroom.

I can hear her deep breathing as she turns over in bed. She’s so tiny, just under five feet tall. She looks young for her age because of her height. She could also be mistaken for a boy from behind because of her short auburn hair. Dad says he never wants Bells to grow her hair. ‘You must never hide behind your hair,’ he told her when she started to be a self-conscious teenager who wanted to look like everyone else. ‘You look the world in the eye,’ he said.

I kneel down by her bed and watch as she sleeps, absorbing each line and movement of her face. There is the familiar scar over her upper lip that crosses like two letter Cs. She always wears three small stud earrings in her left ear; one of them is a green stone surrounded by gold.

Her hand pokes out from the duvet, the skin so pale you would not believe there was blood pumping through the veins. Gently I touch it and it feels as soft as melting butter.

After Sam went out, Bells and I tidied her room and put the snowy owl that Mum made for her on the bedside table. Bells loves owls. Mum made me a cheetah. His name is Charlie. Bells carefully placed her inhaler on the bedside table, along with her small photograph album that she has covered with David Beckham stickers. Mum told me she takes her album everywhere when she’s away from home, it’s like her comfort blanket. I pick it up and quietly leaf through the pages. By each photograph, inscribed on a small white sticker, is a precise date, time, location and description of the person photographed. There’s a picture of Mum in her studio, her hands caked in clay, smiling right into the camera; there’s a terrible picture of Dad with red eyes reading the newspaper; there’s a picture of the water meadows where we used to walk as children. My parents live in St Cross, Winchester. There’s a picture of a man wearing a purple tracksuit and football sweatshirt, holding a parrot. He has an identity card around his neck. ‘Ted, 1990, St David’s, in the garden, summertime.’

Bells opens her eyes and looks straight into me. I panic, thinking I shouldn’t be here, but then she shuts them again. I wonder what she dreams about when she goes to bed at night. When she was little she used to have nightmares so we had to keep a light on in her room. It was a little pink light in the shape of a house. Dad said Bells was terrified of the dark as a result of all the surgery she had to go through as a baby and young child. She developed a phobia about anaesthetics and would scream before each injection. She didn’t know what anaesthesia was, but she knew exactly what it meant. Blackness. Dad was good at talking to me and explaining. He was naturally gentle. In the end it was Emma’s sister, Natalie, who came up with a solution called ‘The Black Box’. We had to cut off a piece of Bells’s hair – it had to be something physical rather than an item of clothing. We put the strand of hair in a box and the alternative practitioner did a kind of absent healing. Mum and Dad thought we were mad but realized there was little to lose. Besides, we were all going insane from lack of sleep. I can still remember Natalie asking me to kiss the box. ‘Gives it good vibes,’ she claimed. After a few days Bells’s howling at night stopped. It was like magic.

I stand up, the stillness of the room contrasting strongly with the chaos earlier in the evening. As I’m about to leave the room I hear her muffled voice.

‘Nothing around me?’ she says groggily.

‘Nothing around you,’ I whisper back, just as Mum used to reply when she was a child.

‘Promise?’

‘I promise.’

CHAPTER NINE

I climb the three steps into Mum’s studio. Her classical music is on in the background, just as it always is. Mum’s studio is like a zoo with the parrots, a pair of cockatoos, a zebra, a giraffe, a tiger, a lioness and a few monkeys perched on shelves, some half-finished, some that Mum calls ‘rejects’ because they slope too far to the right or left. Mum’s a sculptor. Her last project was a camel on bended knee. A friend of hers went to the Sahara Desert and fell in love with the camel she rode and asked Mum to do a sculpture for her from a photograph. She has an entire pin-board full of postcards and letters from happy customers who have commissioned monkeys or fish or whatever.

Mum’s long table in the middle of the room is covered with jam jars filled with brushes and open paint tubes. The room has that familiar smell of white spirit, clay, chalk and dust. ‘How are you, darling?’ she asks, her neck craned over her work. Her auburn hair is tied back in a navy and white dotted scarf and she’s wearing large silver hoop earrings that make her look like a gypsy.

I realize the only time I get to see or talk to Mum is either when she’s cooking and the kitchen smells of garlic – Mum likes to put at least ten cloves of garlic into everything – or when she’s in the studio.

‘Good day at school?’ she mutters, continuing with her work and humming along to the background music. Her hands are sticky from the clay. Mum, turn around, I think. Instead I walk in front of her. ‘Good day?’ she repeats distractedly.

I drop my satchel on to the floor. I don’t tell her that I got told off yet again for wearing mascara. ‘Go and wash that black goo off your face,’ my boring maths teacher says again and again. Last weekend I was caught stealing black eyeliner, mascara and a block of spot cover-up from Boots, and the police came by the house to talk to Mum and Dad. It has been suggested that we need family counselling.

‘Stealing isn’t clever, Katie,’ Dad sighed. ‘Or if you have to steal, why don’t you make sure it’s something better than an eyeliner? And don’t get caught next time.’

‘Not bad. What are you listening to?’

‘
Madam Butterfly
.’

‘What’s that?’

‘It’s a cheetah.’ She sits back and admires it. ‘When I was about your age, my mother took us to a wildlife orphanage in Africa. I always remember this cheetah rolling on its back like a big tame cat. I was tempted to put my hand through the bars to stroke it. I would have done too if Mum hadn’t pulled me away. You see, they could take a bite out of you, and more.’

I flinch. ‘What do they like to eat?’

‘Beavers, game birds, impala, warthogs.’

‘I love its spots.’

‘Did you know, the name “cheetah” comes from a Hindi word meaning “spotted one”?’

I shake my head. ‘What are those dark lines by its eyes? Has your paint run?’

‘Run? No! You are funny. Those are tear lines.’ Finally she looks at me. ‘Do you like him?’

‘Him?’

‘The cheetah, silly.’

‘Oh, I love him. He’s beautiful.’

‘Here, have him, he’s all finished.’

‘Really?’ I smile. ‘But who were you making it for?’

‘That doesn’t matter.’ She ruffles my hair and smiles. ‘He’s yours now.’

CHAPTER TEN

I wake up feeling disorientated. My sleep was disturbed. I feel sure I was back at home, in Mum’s studio. I can even smell the white spirit. Since the news that Bells was coming to stay I’ve been thinking a lot about home, particularly about Mum. Yesterday, when I was working in the shop, I found myself drifting back to the time when we all went to a New Year’s Eve party hosted by Mrs Kissinger. I must have been about twelve. Dad called her Lady Kiss Kiss because she thought she was very grand and did those awful air kisses with sound effects. I remember she had a face like a pug. In between bowls of quail’s eggs and blinis with smoked salmon being handed around the chandeliered room, Bells lifted her velvet skirt and proceeded to pee on the carpet. You see, unless we reminded her to go to the loo she’d forget that it wasn’t the done thing to do it on the floor. Lady Kiss Kiss raced over to us saying it was her favourite carpet with hunting scenes on it. Now there was this wet patch over one of the angry warriors on horseback clutching a spear. The other guests didn’t look our way. Instead they pretended to be engrossed in conversation. I had never before seen so many backs turned towards us. Dad was grateful Lady Kiss Kiss never invited us back.

Sam is still fast asleep. He must have crawled into bed at about four this morning. I slip my feet into stripy zebra slippers and put on my silk dressing gown which is hanging on the back of our door. I walk into Bells’s bedroom but she is not there. She must be downstairs. I find her at the kitchen table poking the milk-bottle sculpture. She’s wearing grey baggy tracksuit bottoms and a red Oxford University T-shirt.

‘Careful, Bells.’

‘What’s this?’

‘Do you like it?’

‘No.’

I half smile. ‘Don’t say that to Sam. It’s his favourite piece of art.’

‘Don’t like Sam.’ She withdraws her hand from the sculpture immediately, as if she is touching something dirty. ‘He says “F” word a lot. We not allowed to say that word.’

‘You don’t know Sam,’ I point out firmly. ‘You mustn’t judge so quickly. Be nice to him, OK?’

‘Don’t like him,’ she states.

‘Bells, this is Sam’s house. He has been kind enough to have you to stay. You need to get to know him. Do you want some breakfast?’

‘In Wales have muesli for breakfast. Make it ourselves.’

‘We need to go to Sainsbury’s. Do you want to come with me?’

*

As we walk into Sainsbury’s I watch us on the CCTV screen. Bells is now wearing her pink frilly blouse underneath a pair of denim dungarees, plus her purple pixie boots and embroidered hat. I’m wearing an orange skirt that clings to my hips, with a pale yellow top and orange beaded sandals. Bells tells me I look like a satsuma.

There’s a delicious smell of fresh bread that makes me feel hungry. ‘Hello, how’re you?’ Bells asks an old lady on a light blue scooter which has a black shopping basket at the front. ‘How old are you?’ She stares at the scooter, which has ‘Bluebird 2’ painted on the back like a number plate.

‘Excuse me,’ the lady says, reaching across to grab an avocado and avoiding eye contact.

Bells comes back to me with two lemons. ‘I wouldn’t say hello to everyone,’ I tell her quietly as we move on. ‘And, funnily enough, people aren’t that happy to declare their age.’

Bells is picking out packets of dried prunes, apricots, sultanas, figs and rolled oats for her muesli. ‘You have to have Diet Coke,’ I tell her when we reach the drinks section.

‘Best of luck,’ I hear a man saying. I turn sideways to see an old bearded man pushing a trolley filled with oranges. He taps another man on the shoulder who is pretending to be absorbed in deciding what brand of tomato ketchup to buy. ‘Best of luck,’ he says again, winking. He’s wearing a knitted jumper with ducks on it and a pair of black fingerless gloves. His eyes twitch when he talks and for a moment he looks at Bells and me, aware he’s being watched. I look down at my feet, hoping the man won’t point his fingerless gloves our way.

‘A mad man,’ Bells says. ‘Poor man.’

‘Shh, don’t stare.’ Swiftly I push our trolley on. Bells fills it with everything organic. The only vegetable that isn’t organic is the tin of mushy peas. That’s the only thing she likes in a tin, she tells me. She puts ingredients I have never even used into our trolley. She wants dried porcini, coconut milk, chillies, coriander, bay leaves, stuffed olives, sesame seed oil, fresh ginger. ‘What are we going to do with all these herbs and stuff?’ I ask her, slowly panicking that the bill is going to be enormous. ‘You cook a lot at home, don’t you?’ I ask her. ‘I bet they love you cooking for them.’

‘Yes, they call me Queen of Kitchen.’

I feel relieved when we finally make it to the checkout desk. The queue is long and we stand behind a tall man with light brown tousled hair. Amongst the shopping in his trolley are a packet of crumpets, runny honey, a ready-made lasagne for two, mini Magnums and a bottle of red wine. The kind of food I normally have in mine. Bells taps him hard on the arm. ‘Hello.’

I look down at my feet.

He turns around. ‘Hi,’ I hear him say, and briefly look up. He’s wearing glasses, a white T-shirt and dark jeans.

‘I’m sorry,’ I say, drawing in breath.

‘Hello.’ Bells whacks him hard on the arm now and then holds out her hand.

‘Bells! I’m sorry,’ I say, wincing in sympathy. He manages a pained smile as he rubs his arm and stretches out his own hand to Bells.

‘You like Beckham?’

I’m sure he’s wondering if he heard right, and I nod. If you can imagine talking without being able to touch the roof of your mouth with your tongue, that’s what Bells sounds like. It’s easier for me because I have learned her language since I was a little girl.

‘Yes, I think Beckham’s great, and Posh Spice too. I can see you love him,’ he intimates, looking at the football badges on her dungarees.

‘You have children?’ she goes on. Oh, please, stop talking.

‘Really?’ He smiles.

‘You have children?’ she asks, urgently now.

He watches her intently, trying to work out what she just said. ‘No, I don’t have children,’ he replies, and I nod, as if to say, Well done, you got it right. ‘Well, I hope not.’ He pulls a crooked smile.

‘How old?’

‘Bells!’ I say, exasperated. I want to blindfold her and put a scarf around her mouth too.

‘It’s OK,’ the man says, beginning to pack his food into bags. ‘Twenty-nine.’

‘My sister, Katie,’ she announces, thumping my arm. ‘I staying in London.’

He tells her that that sounds like fun. As he speaks I can’t help thinking that if he brushed his hair, took off his glasses, fattened up a little … he could really be quite attractive.

‘You want cashback?’ the assistant asks him.

‘No, thanks.’

‘Nectar card?’

He digs into his pocket and produces a few cards. As he hands the right one to the girl he turns to look at me again. It’s strange but I feel like we have met already.

‘’Bye,’ he says, finally.

‘Yeah, ’bye,’ I say, still trying to put a name to his face.

‘’Bye-bye,’ Bells adds.

The man turns around once more. ‘By the way, I’m really thirty-four! I find it hard facing up to my age first time round.’ I laugh as I watch him walk away.

Bells asks the woman serving us how old she is. I suppose it’s better than asking her how much she weighs, I think desperately.

‘Excuse me?’ she says.

Before she has time to ask again, I tell her once more not to ask strangers personal questions, especially their age. ‘Let’s get our food and go. I’m sorry,’ I apologize to the checkout girl.

‘It’s fine,’ she says.

I push the trolley brusquely towards the exit door. ‘No, don’t say anything,’ I say sharply each time I think Bells is about to approach someone else.

‘No!’

‘Don’t even think about it!’

‘In the car!’

I put the keys in the ignition and breathe a sigh of relief that we made it out of Sainsbury’s in one piece, that no one chased us out, threatening to beat us up with a long hard baguette. ‘This is only day one, I can cope with this, I can cope,’ I mutter to myself.

God help me, I have two weeks of this. I can forget being anonymous for the next fourteen days, can’t I?