Something Only We Know (45 page)

‘How do you know he’s a he?’ interrupted Dad.

‘Because he is.’ She widened her eyes at me. ‘So anyway, I’ve considered this carefully and I’ve decided
I want you to take him.’

‘Don’t they smell, though?’ asked Mum.

‘No, they don’t. Jen, will you do this for me? Will you
keep him safe
and look after him? It’s important for me to know.’

‘I’ve heard they bath in sand,’ said Mum.

‘That’s chinchillas,’ said Dad.

‘I don’t want sand all over the house.’

‘Or is it gerbils? Which is it has legs like a kangaroo?’

Hel addressed our parents. ‘Listen, will you? I’ve given it some thought, weighed up the pros and cons and it would put my mind at rest if the hamster was here, with Jen. I
don’t want to be worrying about him while I’m away. I don’t want that extra stress. I need to be free from distractions and focussed on the course. Yes?’

They sagged, helpless. She knows what buttons to push, does my sister.

‘And I know Jen’ll appreciate him.
I know she’ll love him.’

How I longed for the power of telepathy. Are you getting this? I vibed at Ned. Can you hear her? Is she talking about a pet rodent or is she trying to say something else?

My mother’s expression was still doubtful. ‘Couldn’t Ned keep it round at his? That was the original plan.’

I said, ‘If I’ve understood, I think it’s important for Hel that I have him, and here, where I can keep an eye on him.’ Helen nodded theatrically. ‘I could put the
cage in my room, out of the way. I’ll do everything, cleaning and feeding. I’ll keep it super-tidy. There won’t be so much as a flake of sawdust on your carpet.’

Mum turned to Ned, who was huddled in the corner of the sofa. ‘But is that OK with you? Altering your arrangements. It seems wrong. All of it.’

He cleared his throat.

‘Of course it’s OK,’ said Hel. ‘Ned just wants the best for everyone, don’t you?’

‘I do.’

‘Well, he’s a very kind boy,’ said Mum.

Hel bundled the clipped-off ends of flower stems into the wrapping from the bouquet and scrunched up the cellophane into a ball. Her arrangement looked lovely, stalks and colours balanced in
natural harmony. She’d made a perfect job.

‘I think he’s the kindest man I know,’ she said.

There was no chance to get Hel alone, no space for anything except family talk and the endless rehashing of the afternoon’s events. So it wasn’t till nearly 11 p.m.
that I realised my phone was dead. I took it up to my bedroom so I could plug it in to charge, and straightaway an email pinged through. When I opened up the message it was from someone at the
Guardian.

Dear Jenny

Sorry I haven’t replied earlier to your offering. I’ve been snowed under with this MPs’ scandal-thing. Loving your blog! Please give me a ring on 020 3151 4227 and we can
have a chat.

Regards

Julia Marcus-Pieterson

God. God! I read and reread it. Looked away, looked back and it was still there. A chat. A ‘chat’. She ‘loved’ the blog! Oh, bloody hell. I stood there, staring at the
screen, while the implications ricocheted around my head. The thunderclap ending to a tumultuous day.

It was too late to call there and then, obviously. Too late even to alert the household; Dad had taken Mum to bed and Hel had retired to her room with her prospectuses. Ned had gone home before
tea (to lie down in a darkened room, I suspected).

I started to text him, then immediately took fright and deleted what I’d written before sending. No. That was silly of me. It would be best to find out what this woman wanted before I went
spreading the news around. For goodness’ sake, she might only be calling to say, ‘Sorry, you’re not for us, but keep up the good work.’ She might just want to know if
there’d been any developments in the story that she could turn into column inches herself. Or it might be a one-off commission. Or none of the above.

I paced round the bed for a while, rehearsing some of the things I might say to this Julia. I smoothed my hair and buttoned up the neck of my blouse as if I were actually at an interview. When I
did speak to her I’d have to find a space where I wouldn’t be interrupted. Stick a notice on my door, switch off my laptop. No, I’d have my laptop open so I could reference the
blog, but I’d switch off the sound and alerts. My full focus would be crucial. I’d make some notes in advance. Whatever she was after, I’d be on the ball.

One last read of the email – it was true! It existed! – and I replaced the phone on its charger. I thought I’d go downstairs and brew myself a cup of coffee, jot some thoughts
down while my head was still busy.

The landing was dim, but my parents’ light was still on because I could see the glow round the edges of the door. I hesitated at the threshold, listening to Dad’s low mumble, then
Mum’s anxiously pitched responses. You didn’t have to hear the detail to work out the conversation that was passing between them.

Hel’s room was dark as I passed on by.

Even in the hall I could smell the lilies that Mr Wolski had brought. The scent hung around the whole of the downstairs, and I knew for me it would always be the signature of that afternoon, of
that moment when Hel told us she was leaving. I tiptoed into the lounge and switched on the standard lamp, then carried on into the kitchen. The radiance coming off the cooker’s digital
display, together with the moon shining through the window, was enough to navigate by. My mind was churning with incisive comment and brilliant ideas I might lay before Julia, and I worried that
flicking on the harsh central light would send them fleeing.

So I didn’t see Helen till I’d filled the kettle and was slotting it back onto its stand. She’d taken one of the tall stools and tucked it into the corner, where Pepper’s
basket once sat.

‘Christ almighty!’ I said, sloshing water over my hand. ‘What on earth are you doing? Are you OK?’

She was wearing a fleece over her nightie, plus her new Aztec socks. ‘I’m fine. Having some thinking time.’

‘But why here, in the dark and the cold?’

‘I came in to get a drink and then I got playing with the hamster cage. I wanted to see if the wheel squeaked.’

The cage still sat on the kitchen top, triggering the events of the day to replay themselves on fast-forward: Ned struggling in with his blanket-covered surprise, Mr Wolksi standing uncertainly
in the hall, Hel’s announcement, Mum’s dismay. Me kissing my sister’s boyfriend in the street, in full view of the world. The kiss she saw and which I had not yet explained.

‘Oh, God, Hel. Look, I hardly know what to say. I’m so, so sorry, I was going to come to you first thing tomorrow and apologise—’

‘There’s nothing to apologise for.’

‘Yes, there is. What you must have thought! Let me tell you how it happened. Please. Because I don’t want you to think anything dodgy was going on behind your back. You’re my
sister. I would never do that to you.
Ned
would never—’

‘Stop.’

‘But you need to know. It wasn’t that we’d—’

‘Jen, I’ve known for ages that he loved you.’

‘What?’

The plastic casing of the cage glinted between us.

‘I’m not stupid. When you’ve been with someone that long, you know how they tick. I saw where his heart lay. I knew why he stayed with me. I should have let him go sooner, but
I wasn’t quite ready. I am now.’

‘He does love you.’

‘In his way.’

‘He does, lots. Neither of us would ever hurt you. If you said—’

‘It’s all right. I promise. Shush, now.’

She slid down off the stool and came towards me. When she reached me, she took my hand and led me so we were standing next to the cage. Then she placed my palm on the top.

I said, ‘You
knew,
then.’

‘Yes.’

‘I’m not sure what to say, Hel.’

‘Don’t say anything. Just – take care of my hamster. Take good care of him. That’s all I ask.’

Intense sadness welled up and broke over me. ‘Helen!’

‘Sshh.’

‘I don’t want you to go!’

‘Well, that’s tough, kid. We Crossleys have got to strike out for ourselves. You too. Your time will come. And I’ll be cheering.’

‘It’s frightening, though. So much change.’

‘It is, but it’s going to happen anyway. Might as well flow with it.’

I thought of Mum and Dad in bed above us, navigating the ship of our family through the rockiest seas for years and years. When love’s so freely given, you don’t even notice it.

I said, ‘Are we OK, you and me? Tell me that and, whatever happens, I’ll be fine.’

She touched a slender finger to the corner of my eye where a tear was forming.

‘More than OK, little sis. More than.’

AFTERWARDS

We’re only a week into November but The Poacher’s already decked out with Christmas gear. Even as we crossed the footbridge over the canal we could see the MERRY
XMAS banner tacked across the slate roof, and when we entered the threshold, the inner porch door was stapled all over with festive menus. Now we’re in the saloon, with tinsel snaking along
the bar top and draped untidily across the door lintels. Someone has tied a plastic Santa mask to the front of the fruit machine, which just looks weird.

Mum tuts at this brash consumerism, but it’s a half-hearted effort on her part. She’s too happy to be annoyed. She’s happy it’s her birthday, of course; she’s very
happy with the eternity ring Dad has bought her in a gesture of rash romanticism never before witnessed. Mainly she’s happy because I’m home for the weekend and we’re out together
as a family, which is what she loves best. Or perhaps not quite a family, because for today we have Ned with us and not Helen (although I have a surprise in store there for later which should go
down well).

We pick a table, sit, and I lay my tote bag carefully down on the floor, tucked out of the way. Dad flaps his hand at the menu. ‘Have whatever you want,’ he says. ‘Whatever you
want.’

I’ve got everything I want,
I think to myself. Underneath the table, Ned and I are holding hands. It’s daft of us but I don’t care.

While we’re waiting for someone to take our order, Mum points to an ornamental teapot on the windowsill next to my elbow. It’s
Alice in Wonderland
themed, and poking out of
the lid is what I assume must be a dormouse.

‘It looks like our friend,’ she says.

It does, too. Hammy is exactly that shade of orange – though he’s no longer called Hammy. That was the only condition I imposed, the dropping of the naff name. Ned said how about we
called him ‘Johannes Cabal’ after a book he was reading, and I said you can’t call a hamster Johannes Cabal. So we shortened it to Yo-Yo, which suits him perfectly as he’s
forever up and down, climbing his cage, the sofa-back, your arm, the curtains. Once Mum left him unsupervised for ten seconds and he made it right the way up to the curtain rail and had to be
rescued. She’s moved the cage into the lounge, I noticed; it sits on a plastic table cloth near the window. Dad’s told me she likes to talk to Yo-Yo while she’s dusting.
It’s the turn-around to end all turn-arounds.

‘Yes, whoever thought we’d have a pet in the house again,’ she says, revealing that her thoughts were running along the same lines as mine. ‘What a strange year
it’s been.’ And she starts straightening the cutlery and the table mat, and nudging the salt and pepper pots into their proper place.

When the waitress comes over, we give our order promptly and without fuss. Beef in beer for Dad and Ned, rustic pork casserole for Mum, and I plump for the salmon.

‘That’s what Helen used to pick,’ says Mum wistfully. Perhaps she thinks I’m choosing it as some kind of tribute. But the reason Hel always went for fish when we made her
dine out was because it was a low-calorie option, whereas I’m having it because it’s simply what I fancy today. To be honest, Dad could do with a bit of poached salmon in him rather
than the beef. He’s been told by the doctor to shave two stone off. Mum has this campaign to get him out walking with her in the spring.

At the table on our left a teenage boy sits opposite his parents and glowers. He did try earlier to sneak his phone and do a bit of texting, only his mother put a stop to that. To relieve the
boredom he’s currently spinning his butter knife on its axis. You can guess how this is going to end. Like every other bloody male on the planet this autumn, Ned included, he is wearing a
plaid shirt, and that makes me remember Joe Pascoe and the last contact I had there. I was on Crewe Station, waiting for the London train, and for no reason I could justify I found myself checking
out Ellie’s Facebook page. This time I found the settings changed to public, and I could see her profile had undergone a makeover. For a start, she didn’t describe herself as
‘married’ any longer; her Relationship Status was a blank. Divorced or separated? In a sense it didn’t matter. Joe was clearly gone. Her photos of him had been deleted, and there
were lots of new ones of her out with girlfriends, partying and enjoying herself. Stacks of supportive messages on her wall, too, and cartoons about the failings of men and how life was too short
to put up with bastards. The message was clear: Look how well I’m doing now he’s out of my life. Look, Joe, at what you threw away. Look, everyone, look.

Joe’s own page had vanished.

I thought about his little girls, and how, if I ever got married, I’d make damn sure I gave it my best shot. I would not muck about and spoil things. When life was so full of tragedy, what
madness was it made people throw away their own hard-won happiness?

‘Are we ready yet?’ murmurs Ned, breaking into my thoughts.

‘Oh! Nearly. Yes.’

I push back my chair and hook my fingers through the handles of my tote bag so I can pull it up onto the table. Mum frowns as I slide out my laptop and switch it on.

‘Not while we’re eating, Jenny, surely?’

‘I won’t be long. There’s something I need to show you. Something you’re going to be very impressed by.’

The teen across the way eyes me enviously. I click and type. The wi fi connects. We are live.