Letters From My Sister (6 page)

CHAPTER ELEVEN

I’m thirteen years old. ‘How did you meet Dad?’ I ask Mum in the car. She is taking Bells and me to watch Dad conduct an auction. It’s strange seeing her out of her work overalls. Today she’s wearing a green dress and her hair is pinned up with her special tortoiseshell comb. It’s one of the first times we have all gone out together. A trip to London! Normally we don’t do anything. My best friend Emma occasionally comes round but we stay at home.

‘Well, my mother had given me an Impressionist painting, so I went to Sotheby’s to see if it was worth anything. It was a bit of a mystery as it wasn’t signed but it looked like a Pissarro. I was rather desperate to sell it. I’m afraid I was too poor for sentimentality,’ says Mum, twitching her nose.

‘What was it worth?’

‘A free dinner,’ she laughs. ‘I met your father and he asked me out. I knew he was going to be a part of my life the moment I met him. Sometimes you can’t explain it, it’s just a feeling.’

‘Like love at first sight?’ I ask.

‘Yes, I suppose it was. He was an assistant back then. He was very naughty, you know. This very lugubrious specialist was explaining that my painting sadly wasn’t an original, and as he was talking your father was imitating him behind his back. He was unbelievably attractive, the sort of man who could get away with anything. I remember thinking what a big nose he had. I mean, you can hardly miss it, can you, girls? But it didn’t matter, it went with his long thin face. And his eyes were so flirtatious …’ She was getting carried away now. ‘He only had to smile and his eyes were chatting you up. You’ll know what I mean when you’re older. I remember him giving me his business card. Christopher Fletcher. Marianne Fletcher, I said to myself.’

‘Mum, that’s sad,’ I sigh heavily. I can’t imagine wanting to marry any of the boys in my school.

‘You’ll be doing the same one day. You don’t want to marry anyone with a surname like Pratt, or Burk, or Fogsbottom.’

She’s right. There
is
a girl at school whose surname is Smellie and she dreads the school register each morning. Bells is laughing, and this conversation is annoying me now. I turn to look out of the window.

The auction room is dark, with lots of people coming in and out. The carpet is red. I’m sitting next to a man with such a large moustache he looks like a walrus. Mum was too mean to buy us a catalogue each, so I try to lean over and look at Walrus’s. I can see lots of stars scribbled on each page next to the prices.

Over breakfast Dad explained how an auction worked. ‘There’s an estimate for each painting and then a reserve price, which means I can’t sell below that figure. I’m proud my girls are going to be watching me today,’ he added as he ate his last mouthful of toast.

The Walrus peers over at me and I sit straight in my chair. He twirls a pen in his fingers and eyes me curiously. ‘You want to have a look?’ he says in a heavy accent. He is a French walrus.

This feels exciting. Like when you go to the cinema and everyone is waiting for the main film to start. Everyone is waiting for my dad.

Finally he enters the auction room in his polished shoes, smart suit and tie. I chose his tie this morning. He lets me do that sometimes. He’s wearing the black-rimmed glasses that make him look clever. ‘That’s my dad,’ I whisper loudly to my French neighbour. I do think my dad is good-looking.

‘Good afternoon, we have a feast of paintings here today so let’s get started.’ He coughs to clear his throat and I watch him intently. ‘Lot number one. Sketch by Matisse of a lady’s face. Who’s going to start the bidding at twenty-five thousand pounds …?’

The Walrus holds up what looks like a ping-pong bat.

Suddenly the bidding is fast and furious. I turn to the Walrus in amazement as he continues to put up his ping-pong bat. As the auction heats up, Mum is growing redder in the face from trying to stop Bells putting up her hand to confuse the bidding. ‘Hello, Dad!’ she calls out. I can hear people tut-tutting behind us and whispering, ‘Why bring a child to a place like this? It’s quite ridiculous.’ I turn around and give the two old ladies one of my dirtiest looks.

‘That’s my dad!’ Bells shouts now, waving at him.

I feel Mum’s hand tug at mine. ‘We’re going,’ she mutters. ‘Excuse me,’ she asks the person next to her. Chairs are shifted, legs are tucked in to allow us to pass. I don’t want to go. I can feel everyone’s eyes on us and the two old ladies nudge each other triumphantly. ‘Whatever happened to being seen but not heard?’ I turn around and stick two fingers up at them. The two ladies gasp and my father looks at me, disappointment in his eyes. ‘’Bye, Dad,’ Bells is now calling out, people still staring.

In the car on the way home I scream, ‘Why can’t you be normal? We can’t go anywhere with you!’

Mum brakes suddenly and swerves into the side of the road.

‘Danger, danger,’ Bells says in the back seat, laughing.

‘Shut up, Bells!’ I screech at her.

Mum swerves again to avoid a cyclist and goes into the pavement instead, the tyres burning against the kerb in protest. The driver behind us beeps his horn furiously as he overtakes us. ‘Wanker!’ he shouts out of the window. The cyclist turns around briefly and shakes a fist at us.

‘Now you listen to me, Katie …’

‘But, Mum …’

‘No. You shut up,’ she says. ‘If you ever say that about your sister again, I mean EVER, you forfeit your pocket money for weeks.’ She grips the steering wheel. ‘It’s
not
Bells’s fault …’

‘You always take her side, Mum.’

‘You are very lucky you …’

‘I am very lucky I don’t have a cleft lip,’ I finish for her like a robot. Whenever I’m difficult, Mum and Dad’s invariable answer is to tell me how lucky I am not to have been born with something wrong and that I should count my lucky stars.

‘Well, you are,’ Mum says.

‘You love her more than me,’ I tell Mum.

‘I do not,’ she says wearily. ‘That’s not true.’

I look out of the window, trying hard not to cry.

‘All I wanted to do was watch your father today with no dramas, but I see that’s clearly impossible. No more outings, that’s it,’ she tells us with finality.

Back to doing nothing.

‘On Monday we do nothing, on Tuesday we do nothing,’ Bells chants to the theme of
Happy Days
. She doesn’t appear at all upset that she ruined our afternoon.

Mum lights a cigarette with the car lighter and opens the window. ‘It’s OK,’ she mutters. ‘I can cope. You can cope.’

If Bells hadn’t been naughty none of this would have happened. I can feel my chin wobbling but I’m still determined not to cry. Yet tears stream down my face now. I don’t understand it. Why do I always get the blame? I might as well be the naughty one, because at least that way I get to have more fun.

CHAPTER TWELVE

‘What am I doing now?’ Mr Vickers rubs his hands together, thinking up his next trick. We’re in my shop and Mr Vickers and Bells have been playing this charade game for about five minutes. Already I’m finding it a challenge having Bells around. She likes to pretend she’s a customer and unfolds Eve’s neatly piled clothes. She also likes to ask customers how rich they are. ‘How much money you have?’ she says, almost the moment they step inside. And now … who is this man with giant hands the colour of a purple cabbage? His circulation is so poor that his feet, squashed into old beige shoes looking more like Cornish pasties, are also a mottled purple.

I sent Bells off to buy a baguette for lunch, and somehow she managed to pick up this man along the way and bring him back here. ‘Sorry, who are you?’ I asked him as he walked into the shop.

‘I, er, don’t want to intrude.’

‘I’m sorry, who are you?’ I asked again.

Finally I discovered that he is called Mr Vickers and he works at one of the local libraries. He has grey hair and wears mustard-coloured trousers with a smart white-collared shirt. What’s even more peculiar about him is that he has a bump about the size of a golf ball in the middle of his forehead.

‘Why funny lump on head?’ Bells asked immediately.

‘Oh, my goodness,’ Eve said, putting a hand over her mouth. ‘Bells, it might be personal.’

Our visitor looked at me for a translation. ‘She asked you what the, um, lump was on your forehead?’ My voice rose at the end. I was oddly curious too.

‘I was, er, born with it,’ he replied. ‘I’m not quite sure, er, what it is … soft tissue or something like that.’ He didn’t seem too embarrassed about being asked such a personal question.

‘What am I, er, doing now?’ he asks her, and even Eve is joining in. He holds his hand in mid-air, fingers clenched as if he is holding on to something tightly, and starts rocking backwards and forwards, making strange noises.

‘You are riding a horse?’ Eve guesses, her finger resting on her lip as if she is trying to solve an important crime. She looks confused, her eyes narrowed. ‘
Non
, that does not explain the hand.’

I glance at the door, praying no one is going to come in.

‘Shall I, er, do it again?’ he asks with enthusiasm. ‘I’ll give you, um, another clue,’ he adds generously. ‘OK. OK.’ He positions himself.

Bells starts rocking forwards and backwards like Mr Vickers. It’s the first time I have seen her enjoying herself since she arrived. He still makes those odd noises as he rocks back and forth. ‘Mind the gap,’ he announces sporadically. ‘That is,’ he pauses, ‘er, the clue,’ and he smiles at Bells and Eve.

‘
Bien sûr!
You are on a train!’ Eve claps.

Bells claps too. ‘Choo-choo train!’

‘I am on the, er, underground at Waterloo.’ He talks slowly, emphasizing every word, in between his stammering. ‘I could not get a seat so I am er … er …’

Oh good lord. Is it only me who thinks this is insane?

‘I am holding on to the, er, strap.’

He is about to do another role-play and I have to say something now, I’m at breaking point. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Vickers, we’re busy …’ Eve, Bells and Mr Vickers look around the empty shop.

‘Er, nice to meet you, Isabel, Eve.’ Mr Vickers looks at me and nods before he leaves.

‘You come back?’ Bells calls after him.

When he is out of sight, Eve looks at me disapprovingly and I shrug my shoulders. This is my shop, not a community centre.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

‘I’m sorry, honey, I didn’t realize it was your turn to host the poker night,’ I apologize again. Sam watches me as I throw down my handbag, newspaper and house keys on the sofa. Today felt about a week long. No visit from Mr Vickers but the thing that really gets to me is when Bells touches the clothes with her gummy fingers. Thank God most of them are black, but even so, no one wants sticky grains of sugar on their dress. Eve took her up to the box room, a tiny room off the second floor where I keep a kettle, coffee and my delivery boxes. She said she’d help Bells wash her hands. ‘Hot soapy water,’ I could hear my sister saying.

‘You bite your nails? You should eat raw jelly,’ I overheard Eve suggest. ‘I will treat you to a French manicure. You would like?’ Sometimes I wonder what I would do without Eve. That manicure gave me enough time to refold all the clothes.

Now Bells sits down on the sofa and opens her Magnum ice-cream wrapper, oblivious to my conversation with Sam. Sam is eyeing the sticky chocolate wrapper that is precariously close to his cream-coloured cushion. ‘Why do you plonk your crap on the sofa, Katie, when there’s a perfectly good table next to it?’ He frowns. ‘Isabel, give me that wrapper.’

‘You like Stevie Wonder?’ Bells asks him.

‘What?’ Sam squints at her.

‘You like Stevie Wonder?’ Bells repeats, holding the CD towards him, ice cream wobbling in the other hand.

‘Not a fan,’ he says. ‘That “Ebony and Ivory” song he did with Paul McCartney was a pile of pants.’

So charming.

‘What I really don’t like, though, is junk lying around the place. It’s my home, so if you could respect the rules? Good girl,’ he says, avoiding eye contact. ‘Wrapper, please.’

She hands it to him and he marches off downstairs to the kitchen. I follow him. I can hear the television being turned on upstairs. Bells is watching Wimbledon.

‘I can’t go out tonight, Sam, I have to do my accounts. Bernard was on the phone today, putting the pressure on.’

‘Katie, it’s strictly a boys’ night,’ he tells me, lifting the bin lid, throwing the wrapper in and slamming it shut.

‘OK, what if I told you Kate Moss was coming over this evening?’

A slight smile plays on his lips and then promptly disappears. ‘Not allowed access, I’m afraid.’

‘What if I’m really quiet … as quiet as a mouse?’

‘What’s Isabel going to do then? I thought Tuesday night was your girls’ night with Emma?’

‘I had to cancel.’ I open the fridge and look inside. Potatoes for baking are in the bottom drawer, as well as a head of organic broccoli and a bag of organic carrots. Cheese, bacon, mushrooms and a pot of olives stuffed with garlic are in the middle.

‘I wouldn’t hang around if you had a bunch of girls here having a Botox party.’

‘I don’t do Botox.’

‘You know what I mean. Christ, you’re pedantic sometimes,’ he says, rubbing his nose.

‘Sam, Bells and I will stay in our bedroom until the coast is clear,’ I tell him. ‘We just need to make … oh, shit, what does she cook on a Tuesday?’

‘What do you mean? Get a takeaway. The boys will be here soon.’

‘I’ll microwave a potato.’

‘I don’t believe this!’ He watches me slit the potatoes across the top, waiting for me to change my mind.

‘Stop rubbing your nose so hard, Sam. You know what happened last time, it went raw at the end.’

He stops. ‘You’re ruining my boys’ night.’

I set the timer on the microwave. ‘You sound like a spoilt brat. It’s one night. I won’t make any noise. You won’t even know Bells and I are here.’ He still looks furious. ‘Is this really about her? If it were just me, would you mind?’

Sam ignores me. ‘Fine. If you have to bloody well be here, can you go upstairs?’

‘No! Sam, as scintillating as it might be listening to you boys, I promise I won’t eavesdrop.’

He makes a disgruntled noise. ‘You promise?’

‘Promise.’

*

Bells sits on the edge of our double bed eating her baked potato. She was cross with Sam because he wouldn’t let her cook. ‘There’s no time,’ he shouted at her, and then at me. Bells was opening the fridge and cupboard doors and he was hovering behind her, slamming them shut the moment she moved away. I explained why she couldn’t cook her vegetarian risotto with olives and pine nuts. ‘Always cook in Wales,’ she protested.

I watch her as she eats. She doesn’t look impressed by the soggy-skinned potato. ‘Try not to get anything on the duvet,’ I whisper to her.

‘Sam kill me if I make a mess,’ she says.

‘Shh! Yes, he will. Bells, you can sit more on the bed if you like.’

She slides a bit closer to me but still doesn’t look relaxed. ‘Do you want a magazine? Look, I bought a
Tatler
.’ I hold it up towards her.

Bells shows no interest.

‘Or how about doing the crossword? Or we can watch the tennis with the volume off? Better that way anyway, you can’t hear the players grunting.’ Bells stares absently at the walls. She looks so bored. Mum and Dad told me, before they left, that she did get easily fed up when she was staying with them and often wanted to go back to Wales.

‘I know it’s not much fun,’ I say, hearing a loud knock on the front door.

Bells puts her food on the floor. ‘We’ve got to be really quiet now,’ I remind her.

Any trace of excitement on her face evaporates into boredom again. ‘Why? Bossy Katie. You like traffic warden. Where’s Sam?’

‘Sam’s here, it’s his boys’ night.’ I’m still smiling at that image of me in uniform with a navy hat on.

‘Who’s at door?’

Oh God, I think to myself. Perhaps it was a bad idea staying in.

‘Davey mate,’ I hear Sam bellow, followed by a few slaps on a manly shoulder.

‘Who Davey?’

‘Bells, whisper. Davey works in the City with Sam.’

‘Lakemore,’ Davey returns in a ringing tone. ‘Am I the first here?’

‘Yep, you are
numero uno
. No one else here,’ he emphasizes loudly. ‘Come on in. Looking sharp, mate.’

I flick my pen between my fingers. I can imagine him winking at Davey now. Sam often follows a compliment with a wink.

‘New Paul Smith shoes. They’re the business, aren’t they?’ Davey says.

‘Very nice.’

‘Like your shirt, mate. Your missus pick it out for you?’

‘No, saw it down the Fulham Road. Nice, isn’t it? Look the part, feel the part …’

‘. . . and you ARE the part,’ they both finish together. ‘Sit down, David, pour yourself a whisky.’

‘Cheers.’

There’s another knock on the door.

‘Crispin, me old diamond geezer.’

‘Lakemore.’ Thump on the back. I can hear their shoes clicking across the wooden floor. They go into the poker-playing room. Sam turns the sitting-room into the games room, puts out the card table with the polished casino chips. ‘Weh-hey, Davey!’

‘Crisps! How goes it?’

‘Who Crisps?’ Bells asks me in an even louder voice. Perhaps she’s unable to whisper?

The door knocks again.

‘MAGUIRE!’ shouts Sam. The door crashes open.

‘LAKEMORE!’

‘They all deaf?’ Bells asks me, rocking forwards and putting her fingers into her ears.

‘Good question,’ I tell her.

‘Davey mate …’

‘Maguire, what you up to?’

‘Crispin, you diamond!’

I laugh quietly to myself. I can’t tell who is talking, they all sound the same.

*

‘You OK, Bells?’ She’s doodling on my newspaper. ‘Give us a clue,’ I suggest and put my files down. Sam has been playing poker for about an hour now, and I don’t know why he worried about me listening to their conversations. Boys together are about as interesting as a night out in Slough.

‘I’m gonna raise you twenty quid,’ I can hear one of them say.

The chips go into the pot.

‘I’ll play,’ one of them says, more chips going in.

‘Fold,’ another says.

‘Are we all on for Ibiza this summer?’

‘Absolutely,’ one of them says.

‘Yeah, yeah, yeah, absolutely,’ echoes another.

‘Tobes isn’t coming this year, his wife has well and truly put the mockers on that.’

‘D’you think he played away?’

‘’Course he did,’ one of them guffaws.

‘I wonder how she found out? Pub rules. What goes on tour, stays on tour,’ someone says.

Bells and I look at each other. I pull a silly face at her and when she laughs I’m taken aback by how pleased I am. She lifts her right hand, thumb pointing up, near her nose. Sometimes, when I look at Bells, I wonder where she came from. Apart from the colour of her hair and eyes she looks like no one else in the family, but her laugh is almost identical to Granny Norfolk’s.

‘Stupid boys,’ I mouth at her, hoping to hear her laugh again.

‘Very stupid,’ she repeats, rocking forward with her thumb up.

I move closer to her. ‘Boring, aren’t they?’ I whisper into her ear.

‘Ha-ha!’ she grunts, and almost laughs again. ‘That’s right. Very boring.’

‘She was a right moose too,’ one of them carries on. ‘I said to Tobes, “Mate, you could have done better than that.” Sam, who was that bird you got friendly with last year?’

I tiptoe towards the door.

‘Can we go now?’ Bells asks impatiently. ‘I’m bored.’

I put a finger over my lips.

‘Need loo,’ she says, getting up.

‘Boys, can you keep the noise down?’ I hear Sam asking, firmly but politely.

‘What’s got into you, Lakemore? You’ve turned a bit quiet. He must be holding seriously bad cards. Where’s your poker face gone?’

‘I could be bluffing, Maguire.’

‘You’re coming to Ibiza, aren’t you, Lakemore?’

‘Yep.’

‘What was that girl’s name?’

‘Er, I don’t know. Cigar, anyone?’

‘Scared the missus will find out?’ They all laugh.

‘I wasn’t going out with Katie then,’ Sam reminds them. ‘I would never cheat on her,’ he says loudly, rather overdoing it. ‘Music, anyone?’

Come on, answer the question. Who did you meet, Sam? It doesn’t matter, we all have a history.

‘I Just Called to Say I Love You’ starts to play. The boys laugh.

‘What the …?’ Sam is clearly ejecting the CD. ‘Must be one of Katie’s,’ he says, trying to keep his composure.

I put a hand over my mouth to try and stifle a nervous giggle when Paul McCartney and Stevie Wonder’s ‘Ebony and Ivory’ plays next.

‘Blimey, mate. What’s happened to your taste in music?’ Maguire roars with laughter. ‘Next you’ll be playing Celine bloody Dion!’

‘It’s Katie’s,’ Sam mutters.

I can hear Bells now, laughing in the loo, and then there is a flushing sound. Oh my God! I turn around and lean against the door. Bells! How could I have lost my concentration and forgotten to remind her not to flush the loo? Sam will kill me. He will kill us both.

‘Lakemore? What’s that sound? Who’s here?’

I pull Bells back into the bedroom.

‘Feeling tight, not funny, Katie.’

‘We’re in serious trouble,’ I whisper.

‘Serious trouble. Not funny, Katie.’

‘No, it’s not funny.’

‘Lakemore, what’s going on? Someone flushed the loo,’ one of the boys says incredulously.

I find myself laughing now and Bells copies me. This situation is so ridiculous. Sam has got to come clean. Tell them we’re here.

‘No one’s here, boys. Can we get on with the game?’ he insists.

‘Come off it!’

I frown. Yes, come off it! Are we
that
embarrassing?

‘Come off it!’ Bells says, stamping her feet.

‘Maguire, it must be the neighbours. You can hear everything, and I mean,
everything
.’

The neighbours? Oh, for God’s sake, Sam. Bells is getting restless and wants to leave the room but I hold her arm firmly. I want to see if Sam is eventually going to confess that we’re here.

Maguire walks out of the room and looks around. ‘Where’s the loo?’

‘Straight ahead of you.’

I can hear the sitting-room door open.

‘Maguire, come and sit down. Listen, who else is going to be here? I’ve told you, it’s the neighbours.’

‘All right,’ he concedes. Then: ‘What the hell was that? There
is
someone here!’

Bells has managed to escape my grasp and is wrestling to open the door.

‘Too tight, not funny, Katie,’ she says now at the top of her voice.

‘Lakemore, someone
is
in your house.’

Another door is flung open and Bells disappears from the bedroom. I can see her rushing past the sitting-room, her arms flailing in the air. This should be – interesting …

‘Who the fuck was that?’ one of them bursts out. ‘By the way, full house,’ he adds.

Bells is running downstairs. ‘Who?’ Sam asks, but his voice is burdened with defeat.

‘That little person?’

‘With the funny boots?’ another of them says.

‘Sam, the game’s up. Confess all.’

‘I told Katie it was poker night,’ he shouts, banging his fist against the table.

‘But that wasn’t Katie,’ Maguire exclaims. ‘Unless she’s shrunk to half her size.’

I put my shoes on and run past them and down the stairs. ‘Sorry, can’t stop,’ I say to them.

‘Thanks, Katie,’ Sam shouts with heavy sarcasm.

‘Lakemore,’ Maguire now says. ‘What the fuck is going on?’