The Year of the Rat (14 page)

‘What’s she doing here?’ I demand, although I know, of course I know. I’m not stupid.

‘I wanted to tell you, love, but I never got the chance. Granny’s come to look after Rose for a while,’ Dad says. ‘Just till we can get something else sorted. So you
don’t have to any more.’

‘I was quite capable of looking after her,’ I say, though the truth is I’m so relieved that I won’t have to look after The Rat any more that part of me is actually quite
pleased to see Granny, in spite of everything. Before Dad arrived, I’d been planning a big
If she stays, I go
showdown. But now I think, what’s the point? Someone’s got
to look after The Rat. And it’s not going to be me. It’s not like I have to have anything to do with Granny. Most of the time I’m in the house I stay in my room anyway, out of the
way of Dad and The Rat. I won’t even have to talk to Granny if I don’t want to.

‘But you didn’t want to look after her in the first place,’ Dad says, bemused. ‘And it was always going to be a temporary thing. Anyway, you’ll be back at school in
a few weeks.’

All this time Granny hasn’t taken her eyes off Dad.

‘You look older, Alex,’ she says. I wonder when she last saw him. I remember he used to go up and see her every now and then for a weekend, but not since I was a kid. Mum would stomp
around in a bad mood the whole time he was away. I asked her once why I couldn’t go with him and she bit my head off so I never asked again.

‘Well, I am older,’ he says. ‘It’s been a while.’

But I know what she means. Dad looks older than he should. Granny’s staring at him as if she’s trying to get him into focus; trying to see her son in the grey, tired man in front of
her.

‘Yes,’ she says. ‘It has.’ Hector whines at her feet and she picks him up and strokes him and forces herself to smile. ‘Where is she then? My little
granddaughter?’ Her voice goes all treacly. ‘What have you done with the little angel?’

‘She’s in the pram,’ Dad says, smiling. ‘Sleeping. Come and have a look.’

She clip-clops off down the hall after him in her heels, and I can hear her cooing. I stand in the doorway of the kitchen and watch them. Granny carefully lifts The Rat out of the pram. The Rat
has almost disappeared inside a sleepsuit – her clothes are still far too big for her – and Granny cradles her in the crook of her arm so she can see her sleeping face.

‘Hello, Rose,’ she whispers.

Dad’s watching them, looking happier than I’ve seen him in a long time. He doesn’t care what Mum would think. He doesn’t care what I think.

In fact, they’ve all forgotten I’m even here.

That evening, after Granny’s settled The Rat in her cot, Dad hauls all the boxes out of Mum’s study and puts up the sofa bed. I watch, furious, as Mum’s study
becomes Granny’s room, filled with the never-ending contents of the violet suitcases.

‘Sorry, Mum,’ Dad’s saying. ‘I know it’s not exactly luxury accommodation. I was going to have a sort-out before you got here. I don’t know where we’re
going to put it all.’

And suddenly I’m not furious any more.

‘Oh,’ I say. ‘I don’t mind having some of the boxes in my room.’

When I’m sure Granny and Dad have gone to bed, I search through the contents of the (PERSONAL) box again, but I can’t find anything to do with James.

I try not to feel disappointed, but I do. Then a thought occurs to me. I drag my laptop out from where it’s been gathering dust under my bed, plug it in and switch it on. Then I sit in the
lamplight staring at the screen. Why do I feel so nervous? I’ve got nothing to feel guilty about. I just want to find out a bit about my father. Nothing wrong with that. It’s not like
I’m going to contact him or anything. It’s no big deal. I’m just curious. But still, I push one of the removal boxes against the door in case Granny decides to come wandering in.
I can already tell she’s the sort of person who can sense when something’s about to happen that she disapproves of.

My other worry is that Mum will decide to appear and stick her nose in.

I type his name – James Sullivan – and, before I can think of reasons not to, I click on the search button. It takes a while to load: the internet connection is always crashing here.
Then the screen flashes up.
About
82,700,000 results
.

Oh.

I sit there for a while, staring at the screen, feeling stupid. It’s hardly the most unusual name. I should have realized there’d be zillions of them. How was I going to track down
the right one? I flick through a few pages. There are doctors and students and solicitors, assorted sportsmen, a lecturer in philosophy, a dog trainer; the pages go on and on. They live all over
the world so I add ‘UK’ to the search, thinking this will narrow it down. It does – to around 21,500,000. And then I realize that, in any case, I have no idea whether he lives in
the UK. He might have emigrated. He might not even call himself James. He might be Jamie or Jim or Jimmy, or he might call himself by some stupid nickname or his middle name. I flick through a few
more pages. There are young ones and old ones and dead ones. Mum would have told me if he’d died, wouldn’t she? But would she have known? I realize I have no real idea whether they were
even still in touch with each other.

I sit and think for a while, trying to remember the conversation we’d had about him all that time ago, vainly struggling to find any forgotten snippet of information that might be
useful.

But I realize there’s nothing for it. I’m just going to have to ask Mum.

‘Don’t mind us,’ Granny bellows cheerily at me, vacuuming around my feet with The Rat on her hip as I sit on the sofa, pretending to read a book.
‘We’ll be done in a minute, won’t we, Rosie Posie?’

She’s only been here three weeks, but it feels like forever, or possibly longer. The house is hardly recognizable. Everything’s been scrubbed and bleached and polished to within an
inch of its life. You can’t put a coffee cup down without her picking it up, tutting loudly and putting a coaster underneath it. The Rat sleeps through the night without a peep. She
‘just needed a bit of routine’ Granny keeps telling us, sounding very pleased with herself.

‘Then perhaps you could help me purée some pears for Rose’s lunch,’ she says, switching the vacuum cleaner off. ‘My little treasure’s getting hungry,
aren’t you?’ The Rat smiles and gurgles at her. I seethe silently at her disloyalty.

‘Perhaps you could even try your hand at feeding her?’ Granny says. She buys mountains of organic fruit and veg which she turns into mush for The Rat, who dribbles it down her chin
or splatters it all over the kitchen floor. The whole process is revolting enough to watch, let alone get involved in.

‘I can’t,’ I say quickly, getting up. ‘I’ve got things to do.’

But as I’m heading upstairs the doorbell rings.

‘Get that, will you, Pearl?’ Granny shouts.

I open the door and standing on the doorstep is Molly, looking tanned and blonder than ever.

‘Oh, Pearl!’ she says, hugging me. ‘How are you? It’s been so long, I just had to come round and see you as soon as I got back. I’ve really missed you.’

‘Oh yeah?’ I say, sceptical. ‘While you were on holiday in your boyfriend’s luxury apartment in Spain?’

‘It
was
brilliant,’ she says, smiling. ‘But yes, of course I missed you. I thought about you every day.’

We stand there for a moment.

‘Anyway,’ she says, ‘I can’t stay long. I’ve got to get back to look after the boys. I just wanted to see you and . . .’ She pauses. ‘I wondered if I
might be able to say hello to the baby.’

‘Oh right.’ So that’s why she’s here.

I stand in the doorway, trying to think of a reason why she can’t come in, but of course Granny appears at that exact moment with Rose in her arms and says, ‘You must be Molly.
Pearl’s told me so much about you.’ Which is true, because MI6 and the CIA could learn a lot from Granny’s interrogation techniques. She wears you down until you’d tell her
anything just to make her go away.

‘She’s my granny,’ I explain in a resigned sort of way. But Molly’s not looking at me, or at Granny. She’s transfixed by The Rat.

‘Rose.’ She says it reverently. ‘Oh, Pearl. She’s
perfect.
’

‘Isn’t she just?’ says Granny, delighted to have found an ally. ‘Come in, Molly dear, and have a cup of tea so you can meet her properly. We were just about to give her
lunch, weren’t we, Pearl?’

I don’t say anything, just trail in after them and then sit watching them as they laugh and coo and feed the pear sludge to The Rat.

‘Can I hold her?’ Molly asks Granny when she’s finished.

‘Of course,’ Granny says, lifting the sticky Rat out of her high chair and placing her gently in Molly’s arms.

‘Hello, Rose,’ Molly says. Her face is lit up with excitement and tenderness, just as I’d known it would be. The Rat gurgles back at her. Molly walks her over to the window and
points things out to her in the garden: the birds, leaves on the trees gently moving in the breeze. She looks so natural and happy with The Rat that I can’t bear to watch. I pick up
Granny’s magazine from the table and try to concentrate on
15 Ways With
Aubergines
instead.

Eventually, reluctantly, Molly hands The Rat back to Granny.

‘I’d better go,’ she says. ‘Mum’s shift starts soon. Shall I come round on Thursday so we can walk in together to get our results?’

I feel a flash of resentment at her, trying to make everything normal, as if we can just pretend it’s all fine, just how it used to be.

‘I’m not going in to get my results,’ I say, flicking through the pages of the magazine.

There’s a pause, and I feel Molly and Granny turn to look at me.

‘What do you mean?’

I shrug, not looking up. ‘I don’t care about them. It’s a waste of time.’

‘Don’t be silly, Pearl,’ Granny says. ‘Of course you’re going to get them.’

‘I’m not,’ I say.

The Rat starts to whine.

‘Well, call me if you change your mind, won’t you?’ Molly says.

‘I’m not going to change my mind,’ I say, pretending to be riveted by an article on scented candles. ‘Didn’t you say you were in a hurry?’

After she’s gone, I head straight up to my room before Granny can start giving me a hard time.

‘You know you upset her,’ Granny calls after me. ‘Such a lovely girl too. You were really quite rude to her, Pearl.’

But I don’t care.

I can’t forgive Molly for loving The Rat more than I do.

A few days later, The Envelope is sitting on the kitchen table when I come down for breakfast. The Exam Results Envelope. Dad and Granny had been on at me all week since I told
them I wasn’t going to go in and collect my results. Granny had wheedled and threatened and bribed, but I wasn’t having any of it. Now they’re both standing, fixed grins on their
faces, watching me intently. Even The Rat watches me closely from her high chair, where Granny’s propped her up with a cushion.

‘Morning,’ Granny says brightly. ‘Did you sleep well?’

‘Would you like a coffee? Or tea?’ Dad says before I can answer her.

‘Actually, I think I’ll give breakfast a miss,’ I say. ‘I’m not hungry anyway.’ I get up and head for the door.

‘No!’ Granny shrieks. ‘You can’t!’

‘But your results,’ says Dad, trying to sound calm. ‘Don’t you want to open them?’

‘No.’

There’s a pause.

‘Not in front of us perhaps.’ Dad smiles at me encouragingly. ‘I completely understand. It’s a private thing. You take them upstairs with you and you can tell us whenever
you’re ready.’

‘It’s not that,’ I say. ‘I just don’t want to know.’

‘Look.’ Dad comes over and takes hold of my hands. ‘You mustn’t worry. We all know what a difficult time it was for you, what awful pressure you were under when you sat
the exams. No one will be disappointed in you, love. And there’s always resits. We’ll be proud of you whatever the results are.’

‘I’m not worried. I just don’t care. What does it matter anyway?’

‘What do you mean?’ Granny says. ‘Of course it matters.’

‘Fine,’ I snap. ‘If it matters so much to you, you open them.’

‘We can’t do that,’ Dad says.

‘Oh yes we can,’ Granny says, snatching them off the table in case I change my mind.

‘You go for it. Knock yourselves out. I’m going to have a shower.’

I stomp upstairs and, as I’m closing the bathroom door, I hear shrieks from downstairs.

‘Pearl!’ Granny calls up gleefully. ‘Pearl? I think you’re going to want to see this, dear!’

I close the bathroom door and lock it.

I’m in the middle of shampooing my hair when there’s a loud sneeze from the direction of the toilet. I start and turn round, noticing as I do Mum’s hazy shape through the
blotchy, yellowing shower curtain.

‘Can’t stop,’ she says. ‘Just popped by to say well done on the exam results.’

I smile, despite myself. ‘I don’t even know what they are yet.’

‘No, but given the frenzy of delight and excitement that’s going on downstairs I’m guessing you didn’t fail them all.’

‘I suppose.’

‘Granny’s probably busy thinking of reasons that it’s all down to her you’re a genius. She won’t let tiny details like the fact that she hasn’t seen you since
you were four and has no genetic input whatsoever get in the way.’