The Book of Tomorrow (13 page)

‘I’ll be extracting the honey on Wednesday if the weather holds up.’

‘Please God, it does.’

‘How many jars would you like me to drop by?’

Something dropped in Mum’s room.

Sister Ignatius stopped walking. Rosaleen pulled her along
and kept talking, boring small talk. Natter natter natter. So and so died. So and so was taken ill. Mavis from down the town was hit by a car in Dublin after being out to buy a top for her nephew John’s thirtieth. She died. She bought the top and all. Very sad as her brother had died the previous year of bowel cancer, now there’s no one left in the family. Her father is alone and had to move to a nursing home. He’s taken ill over the past few weeks. Eyesight is in great decline and didn’t he used to be an excellent darts player. And the thirtieth party was a very sad one as they were all devastated about Mavis. Blather blather blather about crap. Not once were Mum and I discussed. The elephant in the room again.

After Sister Ignatius had left, Rosaleen momentarily leaned her forehead against the door and sighed. Then she straightened up and twirled around to look up on the landing. I moved quickly. When I ducked my head round the corner I saw that Rosaleen’s bedroom was ajar. A shadow flickered by.

I couldn’t stand to sit with Rosaleen and Arthur for breakfast. I’d have rather been anywhere but in that kitchen with the smell of a fry making me feel sick. But of course I knew what I’d do next. I went to Mum’s room.

‘Mum, come outside with me, please.’ I picked up her hand and gently tugged her.

She was still as a rock.

‘Mum, please. Come out to the fresh air. We can walk around the trees and the lakes, we can see the swans. I bet you’ve never even walked around these grounds before. Come on. There’s a beautiful castle and lots of lovely walks. There’s even a walled garden.’

She looked right at me then. I could see her pupils dilate as she focused on me. She said, ‘Secret garden,’ and she smiled.

‘Yes, Mum. Have you been there?’

‘Roses.’

‘Yes, there’s lots of roses.’

‘Mmm. Pretty,’ she said softly, then as though she’d suddenly become from the North of England and dropped a few words, she said, ‘Prettier than rose.’ She said this looking out the window and then she looked at me and used her forefinger to trace the outline of my face. ‘Prettier than rose.’

I smiled. ‘Thanks, Mum.’

‘She’s walked around here before, hasn’t she?’ I exploded into the kitchen, full of energy, which startled Rosaleen.

She raised her finger to her lips. Arthur was on the phone, an old-fashioned thing that was stuck to the wall.

‘Rosaleen,’ I whispered, ‘she talked.’

She stopped rolling out dough and turned to me. ‘What did she say?’

‘She said that the walled garden was a secret garden and that I was as pretty as a rose,’ I beamed. ‘Or prettier, actually.’

Rosaleen’s face hardened. ‘That’s nice, dear.’

‘That’s nice? That’s fucking nice?’ I exploded.

Rosaleen and Arthur both shushed me.

‘Yes. That’s Tamara,’ Arthur said.

‘Who’s on the phone?’

‘Barbara,’ Rosaleen said, strands coming loose around the front of her pinned-back hair and really starting to sweat as she now put some elbow grease into rolling the dough.

‘Can I talk to her?’ I asked.

He nodded. ‘All right. All right. We’ll come to some sort of arrangement. Yes. All right. Indeed. All right. Bye.’

He hung up.

‘I said I wanted to talk to her.’

‘Oh, well, she said she had to go.’

‘She’s probably sleeping with the pool boy. Busy, busy,’ I
said cattily. I’ve no idea where that came from. ‘So what did she call about?’

Arthur looked at Rosaleen. ‘Well, unfortunately they’re having to sell the place where all your things were being stored and so they can’t keep them any more.’

‘Well, there’s no space here,’ Rosaleen said immediately, turning back to the counter and tossing flour on the worktop.

This was familiar to me.

‘What about the garage?’ I asked, the diary now making sense.

‘There’s no space.’

‘We’ll find space,’ Arthur said to me, pleasantly.

‘We won’t because there is none.’ Rosaleen picked up the next dough ball and threw it down on the counter, and started pushing her hands into it, squeezing it, punching it, making some sort of shape.

‘There’s room in the garage,’ Arthur said.

Rosaleen stalled but didn’t turn around. ‘There’s not.’

I looked from one to the other, initially intrigued by this, for once, public disagreement.

‘Why, what’s in there?’ I asked.

Rosaleen kept rolling.

‘We’ll have to make room, Rosaleen,’ Arthur was saying, really firmly now, and just as she was about to interject he raised his voice: ‘There’s nowhere else.’

That was final.

I had a horrible feeling then that the conversation about me and Mum moving in with them wouldn’t have gone too differently.

They didn’t object when I brought the blanket outside to the garden with a plate of fruit and sat under the tree. The sun shower had left the grass wet but I wasn’t planning on moving. The air was fresh and the sun was fighting its way
back out again. From my place on the grass I could see Mum sitting at the window gazing outside. I willed her to come out, for the sake of my own sanity as well as hers. Not surprisingly, she didn’t join me.

Rosaleen busied herself about the kitchen. Arthur was sitting at the table listening to the radio at full blast and flicking through the paper. I watched Rosaleen leave the kitchen with the tray and a minute later she appeared in Mum’s bedroom. I watched her do her usual fussing about. Window, table, linen, cutlery.

After Rosaleen had placed the tray down on the table she stood straight and looked at Mum. I sat up. It was unusual, whatever she was doing. Then her mouth opened and closed, as she said something.

Mum looked up at her, said something, then looked away.

I stood up automatically, watching them both.

I ran inside, almost knocking Arthur over, and charged up the stairs. I pushed open Mum’s door and I heard a yelp and a smash as it smacked against Rosaleen and her tray. Everything dropped to the floor.

‘Oh, my!’ Rosaleen hunkered down and grabbed everything in a panic. Her dress lifted up her thigh and she had surprisingly youthful legs. Mum had twisted around in her chair to see, looked at me, smiled and then faced the window again. I tried to help Rosaleen but she wouldn’t let me, swatting me away and racing to pick up every item I reached for time and time again. I followed her down the stairs, like a puppy, almost nipping at her heels.

‘What did she say?’ I tried to keep my voice down so Mum wouldn’t hear us talking about her.

Rosaleen, still in shock from my attack was trembling and a little pale. She wobbled her way into the kitchen with the big tray.

‘Well?’ I asked, following her.

‘Well, what?’

‘What was that noise?’ Arthur asked.

‘What did she say?’ I asked.

Rosaleen looked from Arthur to me, her eyes wide and bright green, her pupils so tiny her green eyes glowed.

‘The tray dropped,’ she said to Arthur and then to me, ‘Nothing.’

‘Why are you lying?’

Her face transformed. Morphed into something so angry, I wanted to take it all back straightaway: it was my imagination, I had made it up, I was looking for attention…I don’t know. I was confused.

‘I’m sorry,’ I stuttered. ‘I didn’t mean to accuse you of lying. It just looked like she said something. That’s all.’

‘She said, thank you. I said she was welcome.’

I forced myself to remember Mum’s lips. ‘She said sorry,’ I blurted out.

Rosaleen froze. Arthur lifted his head from the newspaper.

‘She said sorry, didn’t she?’ I asked, looking from one to

the other. ‘Why did she say that?’

‘I don’t know,’ she said quietly.

‘You must know, Arthur.’ I looked at him. ‘Does that mean anything to you? Why would she say sorry?’

‘I suppose she just feels she’s being a nuisance,’ Rosaleen jumped in and spoke for him. ‘But she’s not. I don’t mind cooking for her. It’s no bother.’

‘Oh.’

Arthur clearly couldn’t wait to leave and as soon as he’d gone, the day returned to what it always was.

I wanted to have a look around the garage when Rosaleen was gone and I learned the best thing to do was to pretend you didn’t want her to go. That way, she was never suspicious.

‘Can I bring something over with you to the bungalow?’

‘No,’ she said, agitated, still annoyed with me.

‘Oh, okay, but thank you very much for offering, Tamara.’ I rolled my eyes.

She took out the freshly baked brown bread, the fresh apple pie. A casserole dish of something else and a few Tupperware boxes. Enough for a week’s dinner.

‘Well, who lives there?’

No answer.

‘Come on, Rosaleen. I don’t know what happened to you in your last life but I’m not the Gestapo. I’m sixteen years old and I only want to know because there’s absolutely nothing for me to do. Perhaps there’s somebody over there who I could talk to that’s not nearing death.’

‘My mother,’ she said finally.

I waited for the rest of the sentence. My mother told me to mind my own business. My mother told me to always wear tea dresses. My mother told me never to reveal her apple pie recipe. My mother told me to never enjoy sex. But nothing else came. Her mother. Her mother lived across the road.

‘Why have you never mentioned it?’

She looked a little embarrassed. ‘Oh, you know…’

‘No. Is she embarrassing? Sometimes my parents were embarrassing.’

‘No, she’s…she’s old.’

‘Old people are cute. Can I meet her?’

‘No, Tamara. Not yet, anyway,’ she softened. ‘Her health isn’t the best. She can’t move around. She’s not good with new people. It makes her anxious.’

‘So that’s why you’re always back and forth. Poor you always having to look after everybody else.’

She seemed touched by that.

‘I’m all she has. I have to take care of her.’

‘Are you sure I can’t help you? I won’t talk to her or anything.’

‘No, thank you, Tamara. Thank you for asking.’

‘So did she move closer to you so you could take care of her?’

‘No.’ She spooned chicken and tomato sauce into a casserole dish.

‘Did you move closer to her so that you could take care of her?’

‘No.’ She put two boil-in-the-bag rice sachets into another Tupperware box. ‘She’s always lived there.’

I thought about that for a minute while watching her.

‘Hold on, so that’s where you grew up?’

‘Yes,’ she said simply, placing everything on a tray. ‘That’s the house I grew up in.’

‘Well, you didn’t move far away, did you? So did you and Arthur move in here after you were married?’

‘Yes, Tamara. Now that’s enough questions. You know curiosity killed the cat.’ She smiled briefly before leaving the kitchen.

‘Boredom killed the fucking cat,’ I shouted at the closed door.

I sloped into the living room as I had done every morning and watched her scurry across the road, like a little paranoid hamster anxious for a hawk to swoop down and grab her.

She dropped a dishtowel and I waited for her to stop and pick it up. But she didn’t. She didn’t appear to notice. I quickly went outside and down the garden path, stalling at the gate like an obedient child as I waited for her to come running back out.

I bravely stepped beyond the gate. And then once I’d done that, I walked to the entrance of the grounds, expecting by now for her to have noticed her missing dishtowel. Red alert;
there was an apple pie somewhere omitting heat. The bungalow was a red-brick boring-looking thing, two windows covered in white netting, like two eyes with glaucoma, and separated by a snot-green door. The windows seemed dark and even though they weren’t, the glass seemed tinted and only reflected the light from outside, showing no signs of life inside. I picked up the blue chequered dishtowel from the middle of the road, which was mostly always—mostly always, very dead—empty of traffic. The gate to the front garden was so low I could lift my leg over it. I thought it would be the safest way, or fifty years of rusted gate would give me away. I slowly walked up the path and looked through the window on the right of the building. I pressed my face up against the glass and tried to see through the horrific netting. After all the mystery I don’t quite know what I was expecting to see. Some great secret, a crazy sect, dead bodies, a hippy commune, some weird sex thing with a lot of keys in an ashtray…I don’t know. Anything, anything, but an electric heater in place of a real fire, surrounded by dodgy brown tiles and tiled mantel, green carpet and jaded chairs with wooden handles and green crushed-velvet cushions. It was all a bit sad, really. It was all a bit like a dentist’s waiting room, and I felt a little bad. Rosaleen hadn’t been hiding anything at all. Well, not quite: she’d been hiding the biggest home design disaster of the century.

Instead of ringing the doorbell I walked round the side of the house. Immediately as I turned the corner I could see that there was a small garden with a large garage, just like the one at the back of the gatehouse, at the bottom of the land. From the window of the workshed something sparkled. At first I thought it was a camera flash, but then I realised that whatever had dazzled my eyes and momentarily blinded me only did so each time it caught the sunlight. As I neared the
end of the side passage I yearned to see what was around the corner.

Rosaleen stepped in front of me and I jumped, my scream echoing down the narrow alleyway. Then I laughed.

Rosaleen instantly shushed me, seeming jittery.

‘Sorry,’ I smiled. ‘I hope I didn’t scare your mum. You dropped this on the road. Just came to give it to you. What is that light?’

‘What light?’ She stepped a little to her right and my eyes were protected but my view blocked.

‘Thanks.’ I rubbed my eyes.

‘You best go back to the house,’ she whispered.

‘Oh, come on, can I not at least say hello? It’s all a bit too Scooby-Doo for me. You know, mysterious.’