The Year of the Rat (12 page)

‘Is that you?’ I say, incredulous.

She laughs at my surprise. It’s an unexpected laugh, open and mischievous. She seems younger suddenly. ‘I wasn’t born eighty-seven, you know.’

I stare at the younger her in the picture, the curve of her throat and cheekbones, the lipsticked smile, the wide clear eyes fixed on the man next to her. ‘You were beautiful,’ I
say.

‘Well,’ she says, ‘not really. But he thought so.’

‘Your husband?’

‘Yes.’ She smiles, but her eyes look far away. She unfolds herself slowly out of her chair and walks over to the mantelpiece. She picks up the photo and brings it over to me.

‘He was quite a looker,’ I say, smiling at her.

‘I always think Finn’s just like him,’ she says, amused, and I wish for the billionth time in my life that I didn’t blush so easily.

I hand it back to her quickly and she sits there, gazing at it for a moment or two, half smiling, and I wonder if she even remembers I’m there.

‘It wasn’t so very long after that picture was taken that he died,’ she says. ‘A year. Maybe two.’

‘Oh,’ I say, shocked. He looks so alive in the picture. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘Cancer. He smoked like a chimney of course. We all did back then; didn’t know it was bad for you.’

I wonder suddenly if that’s what she cries about.

‘Does it get easier?’ The words are out before I’ve even really thought them.

She looks at me; thinks about it.

‘When someone you love first dies, they’re all you can see, aren’t they? All you can hear? Blotting everything else out.’

I nod, hardly breathing.

‘That changes,’ she says. ‘They get quieter over the years. They still whisper to you sometimes, but the world gets louder. You can see it and hear it again. There’s a
gap in it, where they used to be. But you get used to the gap; so used to it that you hardly see it.’ She takes my hand in her fragile, old one. ‘And then some days, out of nowhere,
you’re making the tea or hanging out the washing or sitting on the bus and it’s there again: that aching, empty space that will never be filled.’

There are tears in her eyes. ‘I’m sorry,’ she says. ‘I don’t suppose that’s what you wanted to hear.’

I look at her and very gently I squeeze her cold, thin hand. ‘I’m sorry too.’

She smiles at me, sad.

From upstairs there’s the sound of a musical instrument being played, a cello I think.

‘Finn,’ she says. ‘He’s good, isn’t he?’

We listen for a while. It’s so sad and beautiful I can’t believe it’s Finn who’s playing. I don’t want it to stop.

‘He’s got a place at one of the best music colleges in the country,’ she says proudly. ‘Up in Manchester.’

She looks tired.

‘I’d better go,’ I say, though I find I’m just the tiniest bit disappointed that Finn didn’t make an appearance.

‘I wish you could come round again tomorrow, but it’s one of my hospital days,’ she says as I heave the Moses basket to the front door.

‘You won’t say anything to Dad about how upset I was, will you? It was silly really and he’d only worry.’

‘He’s got nothing to worry about,’ she calls after me as she closes the door.

When the door slams behind Dad the next morning, I know one thing: I’ve got to get out of the house. But this time The Rat’s coming too.

I collect together all the things on Dad’s
Going Outside
list. It takes forever. You’d think we were going on a month-long expedition. By the time I’ve got it all
together, the nappies, wipes, bottle, milk, spare sleep-suit, sun hat, changing mat, muslin squares, The Rat is already almost hoarse with crying. I plonk her down into the pram as quickly as I can
and with some difficulty manoeuvre the pram out of the front door.

The funny thing is that as soon as we’re outside everything feels different. The Rat seems to shrink. In the house she seems so big and knowing. Out here she just looks like a tiny baby. I
feel a bit self-conscious about the huge shiny pram at first. It’s so noticeable and steering is trickier than it looks. But once I get going it’s easy and after a while I realize that
people look at it rather than at me. In fact, it turns out that when you’re pushing a pram you might as well not exist. People who do notice are only interested in the baby. I walk right past
Jodie and Kev who used to live next door to us in Irwin Street, Phoebe Monks from school and they just don’t see me at all. I feel invisible. It’s a good feeling. All this time
I’ve been looking for a hiding place, where everyone would leave me alone. And now, with the exception of a few old ladies who want to cluck over The Rat, I’ve found one.

She goes to sleep almost as soon as we’re moving. I find that, if I stand at exactly the right distance, the angle of the pram cover means I can’t even see The Rat; her strange,
pointy little face is out of view. I pretend the pram is empty as I push it along, letting the breeze push my hair back from my face and neck. Even with all the traffic of the main road it smells
faintly of summer. As long as I keep walking, I know she’ll sleep. And the sun is warm on my skin and just being out of the house, just walking feels good. I feel alive. I’d forgotten
what it was like. So I keep on going, all the way down to the Heath, then take the corner entrance into the park and head for the flower garden. It’s in full bloom, the air heavy with the
scent of flowers.

I sit down on the grass and park the pram, worrying that The Rat will wake up once we stop. But she doesn’t stir. There are a few other people around, a group with toddlers and babies on
picnic blankets, but no one’s interested in me. I can just sit here in peace. I close my eyes.

‘Pearl!’ I start, opening my eyes to see a man waving at me. As I squint to get him into focus, I realize it’s Mr S, my old science teacher from school. He retired a couple of
years ago, but he looks exactly the same as he comes striding over: far too tall, his hair a bit long and untidy.

‘Well, fancy meeting you here,’ he says. He peeks in at The Rat. ‘And just look at this one, eh? She’s a little belter, isn’t she?’

‘She’s not mine,’ I say hastily.

‘No,’ he says. ‘No, Sheila told me about your mum.’ Mrs S is my English teacher. ‘I was so sorry to hear about it, Pearl, I really was. She was a lovely woman, your
mum.’

Mum loved Mr S. She always used to flirt with him at parents’ evening. It was excruciatingly embarrassing.

‘So you’re looking after the nipper, are you?’

‘Just for a week or two.’

‘Good for you. Hard work, isn’t it?’ he grins. ‘I look after my little grandson one day a week now. It takes me the rest of the week to recover.’

‘Yesterday was a nightmare,’ I say in a rush. ‘She started crying and I didn’t know how to make her stop.’

I’m not sure why I’m telling him. It’s just a relief to share the horror of it.

‘Occupational hazard,’ he says. ‘Still, you’re obviously doing a good job. Look at her now, happy as you like and fast asleep. You should give me a few tips.’

I smile at him gratefully. ‘It’s better now we’re out of the house.’

‘Tell you what, do you want to come and have a cup of tea with me?’

I know he’s just saying it because he feels sorry for me, but for some reason I don’t mind. I always liked Mr S and I know he won’t try to make me talk about how I’m
feeling or ask me difficult questions. He’ll be too busy telling terrible jokes.

‘Go on then,’ I say.

He pushes the pram as we walk down to the tea pavilion. ‘How did your exams go?’

‘I don’t know.’ And I don’t care, I want to add.

‘You’ll be fine,’ he says. ‘You’re not as green as you’re cabbage-looking, you.’

I laugh. ‘Is that supposed to be a compliment?’

‘And I sincerely hope you’re planning to carry on with English next year,’ he says. ‘Or I’ll have Sheila bending my ear about it.’

‘I haven’t really thought about it.’ I haven’t even decided whether I’ll go back and do A levels. The idea of going back to school doesn’t exactly fill me
with joy. On the other hand, it’s better than being stuck at home with The Rat. And I know everyone will give me a hard time if I don’t, including Mum.

We sit at one of the picnic tables outside to drink our tea. Mr S makes me laugh, telling me silly stories about the good old days when his pupils used to blow things up and set fire to their
hair in science lessons.

When The Rat wakes up, he volunteers to give her a bottle of milk and he chats away to her while he does it, explaining the names of the different field placings in cricket. Short square leg.
Silly mid-off. ‘I hope you’re listening, young lady,’ he says. ‘This is an important part of your education.’ She stares, intrigued. ‘Periodic table next
time.

‘Good to see you, Pearl,’ he says when it’s time to go. ‘You’re doing a grand job. Good luck with your results.’

It’s late by the time I get home and Dad’s already there. As I open the front door, he’s on the phone.

‘I’ve got to go,’ he says quickly as soon as he sees me. ‘I’ll speak to you about it at the weekend.’

He puts the phone down and comes to help me get the pram through the front door.

‘How are my girls?’ he says.

‘Who were you talking to?’

‘Oh,’ he says, looking shifty. ‘Just something to do with Rose.’

‘What about her?’

‘Childcare. Sort of. I’ll tell you about it later. Anyway, where have you been? I brought some work home so that I could see you both and then you weren’t here. I was starting
to get worried.’

He lifts The Rat out of the pram and smiles at her.

‘We’re fine,’ I say. ‘You don’t have to check up on me, you know.’

‘So it’s going OK?’ Dad says. ‘You’re sure you can cope for the rest of the week?’

‘Course,’ I say.

When I go up to my room, Mum’s sitting on the bed, waiting for me.

‘You scared the life out of me,’ I say.

‘How’s Rose?’ she says excitedly. ‘She’s home now, right? I just wanted to check how it’s all going.’

She fixes me with her most piercing stare. I know I’m going to have to make this good. I can’t let her have any suspicion about what’s really been going on. If she knew what a
mess I was making of everything, how I’d abandoned The Rat, I’d never see Mum again. I’ve got to convince her, and I never could lie to her without her seeing through me.
You
can’t kid a kidder, Pearl,
she used to say, eyebrow raised.

But maybe I can. Suddenly I know how to do it. I won’t tell Mum about The Rat. I’ll tell her how it would have been if things had gone right; if we’d brought home the baby
I’d imagined when Mum was pregnant, the nappy-advert one with the dimples and blonde hair.

‘It’s great,’ I say, picturing in my head how it should have been. ‘She’s so good. She hardly ever wakes up in the night.’

‘Really?’ Mum looks surprised. ‘You woke up every hour on the hour for the first two years from what I remember.’ She’d made a big point of telling Dad about this
when she was pregnant with The Rat. Since he’d missed out on the night feeds and nappy changing with me, she’d been determined he’d be making up for it this time round. ‘She
sounds angelic.’

‘Oh, she is,’ I gush. ‘She’s adorable. Everyone says so. Really smiley. I’ve been looking after her this week while Dad’s been at work and she just loves
being with me. Dad always says her face lights up when I come into the room.’ I remember The Rat screaming at me as I held her out in front of me, her little body rigid with rage. Was it
rage? Or was it something else? I push the thought away and focus again on the imaginary baby. ‘She loves it when I feed her,’ I add for good measure. ‘And when I sing to
her.’

Hmm. Perhaps that was overdoing it. Mum looks sceptical.

‘Have you had her hearing checked?’

‘You’re not funny.’

‘Well,’ Mum says, ‘she sounds positively perfect. Almost too good to be true. I take it she does produce the occasional smelly nappy? Or does what comes out of her rear end
have a faint aroma of meadow flowers?’

I realize I have been overdoing it slightly.

‘Oh,’ I say. ‘Smelly nappies. Yes, of course. Yuck.’

‘Well, I’m delighted it’s all going so swimmingly,’ says Mum and there’s a faint edge to her voice. Does she know I’m lying?

‘Are you ever here without me knowing?’ I ask suddenly.

‘What?’

‘It’s just sometimes I get the feeling you’re watching me. Like the other day I was talking to Dad in the sitting room about . . . something. And I thought maybe you could
hear.’

‘What? You think I’m spying on you?’

‘Not exactly . . .’

‘Shuffling along, hiding behind a rubber plant? Sitting in cafes, reading newspapers with holes in? Wearing those glasses with the fake nose attached?’ She laughs so hard she starts
to cough and has to take a swig of my glass of water. After a while, she tries to control herself. ‘I always rather fancied myself as a gumshoe actually. Private investigator. Lady detective.
I’d be great at it. I have all the necessary attributes. Discreet. Inconspicuous. Very good at blending in, chameleon-like. Don’t you think?’

‘That’s not what I meant,’ I snap.

‘So what are you so worried I’ll find out anyway? Are you keeping secrets?’

For some reason I think of the hidden photo in my bedside table of Mum with James.

‘No. Course not.’

I’d been thinking perhaps I could ask her some questions about him, but somehow now doesn’t seem quite the right time. She’ll only bite my head off, take it all the wrong
way.

She raises an eyebrow. ‘Then why do I get the feeling there are things you’re not telling me?’

‘Because you have a suspicious mind,’ I offer.

She sighs. ‘Can’t you be honest with me, Pearl? I’m your mum.’

‘I
am
being honest.’

She sighs and fishes a packet of cigarettes out of her pocket. ‘OK, if you say so.’

‘I do.’

‘Well I never,’ she says as she opens the window. ‘Come and look at this.’

‘What?’

‘There’s a rather glorious boy digging up next-door’s garden. Come and see.’

I walk over to the window and catch a glimpse of Finn disappearing into Dulcie’s house.