The Year of the Rat (5 page)

The last picture is of Mum lying in a hospital bed, looking young and exhausted, holding me, all new and crumpled. Not like The Rat though. I look like a real baby. I think of The Rat in her
funny plastic box with the tubes going in and out of her. Is she still in it? Does she still look the same? I examine the photo carefully. Dad wasn’t there; he and Mum had been friends since
before I was born, but they didn’t get together until a few months later. My real father hadn’t been there either. He and Mum had split up before I was even born. I think of how Dad
looked at The Rat when we first saw her and I wish suddenly that someone had been there to look at me like that.

I put the envelope back in the box and press down the tape. There’s plenty more to see, but I can’t look any more. Perhaps another day.

The sun’s shining now and I go outside into the garden. It was a mess when we moved in and now spring is here it’s grown completely wild. I pick my way across the overgrown meadow of
the lawn, yellow with dandelions, to the little bench under the trees at the end, surrounded by a mass of lily of the valley in among knee-high weeds. I close my eyes, just like I did in the church
when Mum appeared, and I try to reach her with my mind.

This was where it all started: where she told me about The Rat, that day we first looked round the house last summer. I picture it in my head, trying to remember every tiny detail. The estate
agent had taken Dad up to look at the loft space.

‘Plenty of room for a master bedroom and en suite up there if you ever wanted to convert it, Alex,’ he said as they started up the stairs. ‘You don’t mind me calling you
Alex, do you?’

Mum had done a disappearing act. I thought maybe she’d gone outside for a cigarette so I went out to explore the overgrown tangle of back garden and found her, sitting where I am now,
almost hidden from the house. But she wasn’t smoking.

‘What are you doing out here?’ I’d asked. ‘It looks like it’s going to chuck it down again any minute.’

‘I just needed some air,’ she said. ‘I felt a bit—’ She stopped and put her hand over her mouth suddenly, as though she was going to be sick.

I looked at her. ‘Are you OK? You look terrible.’

‘Of course,’ she said, attempting a bright smile. ‘Just . . .’ Her skin was pale and waxy, smudged dark under the eyes. She tried to smile. ‘I’m absolutely
fine, really.’

I looked at her, surprised. I knew from years of watching Mum lie that she could fib without a flicker. Never about anything serious. Just about parking tickets or library fines, or imaginary
disasters that meant she was going to be late for work. When I was a kid, she’d have me believing her, even though I knew what she was saying bore absolutely no resemblance to the facts.
Afterwards, she’d give me a big wink and say,
Just a little white lie, Pearl
. But this wasn’t a little white lie. This was something big; so big she couldn’t hide it.

‘You’re not fine. Why are you lying to me?’

Now I thought about it she hadn’t seemed right for a while. Tired all the time. Not eating much.

‘Oh my God. You’re ill, aren’t you?’

‘Honestly, Pearl, you’re such a drama queen.’

But she looked nervous, not meeting my eye.

I started to panic. ‘It’s something serious. That’s why you’re lying.’

It seemed obvious now. The tiredness and the sickness. Three mornings that week I’d been hopping around outside our toilet while Mum vomited. She’d said it was food poisoning, but,
oh Christ, it all made sense now. Dad fussing round her all the time. She’d even given up smoking. It had to be something serious. What else could explain it? The tiredness. Giving up
smoking. Sickness . . . every morning . . .

Oh.

I looked at her, disbelieving. ‘You’re
pregnant
,’ I breathed.

‘No,’ she said. ‘Well . . . Yes. Dad’ll kill me for telling you. He wanted us to do it together. You’ll have to pretend it’s all a big surprise when we
do.’

I stared at her. ‘You’re going to have a baby,’ I said, still not really believing it.

‘That’s the general idea.’

‘And you’re always telling
me
to Be Careful.’

She looked embarrassed. ‘Actually, it wasn’t an accident.’

I tried to take all it in. ‘But you’re too old.’

‘No I’m not,’ she said, frowning. ‘I’m thirty-seven. Which is very young
actually
, Pearl.’

I tried to get it all straight in my head.

‘When is it due?’

‘Not for ages. I’m only a few weeks gone.’

‘Is it a boy or a girl?’

She shrugs. ‘I don’t know. Dad’s convinced it’s a boy.’

We sat in awkward silence for a moment. I didn’t know what to say.

‘Are you pleased?’ she asked. ‘About the baby?’

‘I don’t know.’ The whole thing was freaking me out a bit. She looked disappointed.

‘I don’t mind,’ I said. ‘It’s just a surprise.’ I thought about it a bit more. ‘Are
you
pleased?’

‘I would be if I didn’t feel so sick,’ she said. ‘Dad’s over the bloody moon.’

We sat there a while longer, the scent of rain on dry earth hanging in the air around us.

Funny how things get linked in your head. When I smell it now, that smell of rain and mud and things growing silently, it feels like a warning that you don’t know what’s coming; that
the world can tip. At the time it just smelt fresh and clean and new.

‘Wow,’ I said at last, smiling. ‘A
baby
.’

‘I know,’ she said. ‘Amazing, isn’t it?’

‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘It is pretty amazing.’

She reached out and squeezed my hand. ‘I’m so glad you’re pleased,’ she said. ‘You’ll make a fantastic big sister.’

‘Can I have your leather jacket?’ I said. ‘You’ll be too fat for it soon.’

It seems like another life, thinking back on it now. I open my eyes. Has it worked? Surely she’ll be here. But the garden is still.

‘Mum?’ I say at last. ‘
Mum
. Are you there?’

I wait.

‘
Please
.’

There’s the lazy buzz of an aeroplane overhead. A tear slides down my nose. Why should she be any more reliable now she’s dead than she was when she was alive? The thought flashes,
unwelcome, into my head and suddenly my patience has gone.

‘Why did you let him persuade you to have a stupid baby in the first place?’ I shout at the empty garden. ‘Why aren’t you here when I need you?’

Shouting feels good.

‘You’re a selfish bitch!’

I’m so angry my hands are shaking. But rage feels good. It feels hot and powerful and fierce and I feel alive. I shut my eyes again and breathe deeply and slowly. As the anger drains away,
I feel limp and exhausted and a bit ridiculous. The garden sounds very quiet now I’ve stopped ranting. And yet – I open my eyes – not as quiet as it should. There’s a
shuffling sound in the leaves on the other side of the wall. I sit up, tensed.

‘Who’s there?’ For a second I think maybe it’s Mum. But no, if she’d heard me shouting at her, she wouldn’t be hiding behind a wall, she’d be yelling
right back at me. But if it’s not her . . .

It’s probably just Soot, I tell myself, trying not to panic. Then the shuffling stops and someone clears their throat in a slightly embarrassed way.

I’m guessing it’s not the cat.

Christ. Whoever it is must have heard everything. It must be Dulcie, the old lady next door. But no, it didn’t sound like an old lady kind of cough at all—

‘Are you all right?’ says a male voice abruptly.

I freeze. I think about scuttling back into the house and hiding there forever. I think about lying down on the ground and pretending to have had some kind of fit, or a bang to the head or
attack, that would explain everything or at least provide a distraction and mean I didn’t have to speak. I think about invisibility cloaks and stories in the news about sinkholes opening up
and swallowing people whole. But disaster never strikes when you want it to.

‘Hello?’ says the voice uncertainly.

In the end I decide the only option is to pretend it never happened.

‘Yes, I’m fine,’ I say, trying to sound surprised that he’s asking such a stupid question, whoever he is.

There’s a pause.

‘Are you sure?’ It’s a gruff voice, with a northern sort of accent.

‘Yes. Of course I’m sure.’

‘You sounded a bit . . .’ He’s obviously trying to think of a diplomatic way of saying ‘insane’. ‘Upset.’

‘I said I’m fine.’

Another pause.

‘Right.’ Is he being sarcastic? I stand up and stare at the wall, trying to get a sense of the person on the other side. Is he laughing at me? My fists clench. I’m not having
him laughing at me, and attack, as Mum was fond of saying, is often the best form of defence.

‘What the hell are you doing there anyway? Hiding behind walls, listening in on people’s private—’ I stop. Private what? You could hardly call it a conversation. ‘.
. . Stuff,’ I finish lamely.

A head appears over the wall and it doesn’t look impressed. Also, it’s the head of someone younger than I expected, with rather wild dark hair. He can’t be that much older than
me, two or three years at the most, which just makes it all worse, if it could possibly get any worse than being caught shouting abuse at shrubbery.

‘I’m
gardening.
You know, like people do in gardens? Well,’ his eyes scan the jungle of weeds behind me, ‘some people do anyway. That all right with
you?’

It really couldn’t be any more excruciating.

‘S’pose,’ I say. I sound like a five-year-old. He pushes back the dark hair hanging over his eyes and it stands up in mad corkscrews on top of his head. We stand there
awkwardly for a moment.

‘Right,’ he says uncertainly. ‘Fine.’

‘You just carry right on with your
pruning
or whatever,’ I say, unable to let him have the last word. I try to make it sound like a faintly perverted activity.
‘Don’t let me stop you.’

He stares at me and opens his mouth as if he’s going to say something. Then he shakes his head and disappears behind the wall again. I sit down on the bench, but before I can feel relieved
up he pops again like an angry jack-in-the-box.

‘What’s your problem? I was only trying to help.’

‘I thought you’d gone.’ I try to sound bored, inspecting my nails.

Out of the corner of my eye I see him shake his head again.

‘Suit yourself.’

He disappears behind the wall once more.

I sit for a minute or two, trying to pretend I’m just having a nice relaxing time in the privacy of my own garden and not at all concerned about the fact that he’s on the other side
of the wall, a few metres away from me, thinking I’m deranged. But in the end I have to admit defeat. I get up and trample my way through the undergrowth back towards the empty house. As I
do, my phone buzzes with a text message. It’s from Dad.

Hope you’re OK. Rose is doing so well the doctors think she should be home in the next few weeks! See you later x

I stare at the message and suddenly all the anger and frustration and humiliation is just too much. Without thinking about what I’m doing I throw the phone into the fishpond. I don’t
need it. I’m on my own now. It makes a satisfying
plop,
then its light disappears under the thick layer of green algae, sinking into the dark without leaving a trace.

‘Bollocks!’ says Mum.

There’s a cracking, scraping noise over by my bedroom window as I sit up in bed, suddenly wide awake.

‘Jesus Christ,’ I gasp.

‘No,’ she grins, holding a cigarette between her lips and rummaging about in her pockets for a lighter. The sun streams in through the window, making her hair glint amber.
‘Just little old me. See. No beard.’

I stare at her. I’m so relieved to see her I feel faint, so angry it’s taken her this long I could scream.

‘
Mum!
’

But she’s not even looking at me; she’s too busy leaning against the window of my bedroom, pushing all her weight against it.

‘I can’t get this damn thing to open. Some idiot’s painted it shut. Give us a hand, will you?’ She’s talking as though we saw each other yesterday, not weeks ago,
and definitely not as if she’s, well . . . dead. Typical. I bet it hasn’t even occurred to her how upset I’ve been.

‘
MUM
.’

‘What?’ She turns to look at me, noticing at last that I’m furious. Her eyes do the wide, innocent
Oh, I
think there must be some mistake
thing that she used
to use on traffic wardens. ‘I thought you’d be pleased to see me.’

‘I AM!’ I shout as loudly as I dare; I can hear Dad clattering about downstairs in the kitchen. ‘Of course I bloody am.’

‘Well, you could’ve fooled me. Come on. Spit it out. What have I done now?’

I take a deep breath. ‘Well, apart from scaring the life out of me
and
waking me up—’

‘Well, exactly. That’s precisely why I’m here actually.’ She smiles indulgently. ‘But then you looked so sweet and peaceful lying there asleep that I thought
I’d give you five minutes while I had a cigarette. Except then the window . . .’ She gestures at it as if it explains everything.