The Year of the Rat (6 page)

‘No.’ I shake my head. ‘Stop. Go back. What’s precisely why you’re here?’

She looks at me as if I’m stupid. ‘I’m your wake-up call. Come on. Rise and shine, sleepyhead. Spit spot.’

I blink at her.

‘First day of your exams and all that?’ she says slowly, as if to a small child. ‘Shouldn’t you be up and about by now?’

In fact, I’d been lying in bed, pretending to myself that I was still asleep, trying not to think about this very thing, when she appeared. Not that I care about the exams. How could I
now? But the thought of the lines of desks in the hall,
You may turn your papers over
now,
everyone scribbling away like mad and then gabbling on about it afterwards . . . I could
do without it. But I’m not going to let her distract me from my anger.

‘Never mind that,’ I say, trying to keep my voice down. ‘
Where the hell have you been?

‘Oh,’ she says vaguely. ‘Well. The thing is I can’t really talk about that.’

‘I thought you weren’t coming back.’ As I say it, I feel my eyes fill with unexpected tears and I get up and turn away from her. I take my dressing gown from the hook on the
door and wrap it round me.

‘Did you?’

‘
Yes.
I’ve been waiting for you. Ever since the funeral.’

‘Don’t remind me about that funeral, Pearl,’ she groans. ‘Wasn’t it dreadful? I wanted one of those funerals in a field where everyone has fun. You know. People
wear yellow—’

‘Yellow?’

‘And everyone would have to tell stories about how marvellous I was. Beautiful and hilarious, that kind of thing. Kind to animals and a friend to the downtrodden and—’

‘OK, I get the idea.’

‘—and then dance and get drunk.
That’s
the kind of funeral I wanted.’

‘Well then, you should have made a will,’ I snap. ‘Apparently, it’s very inconvenient that you didn’t. There’s all sorts of forms and stuff you didn’t
fill in. Dad’s been doing his nut. Anyway, I hate yellow.’

‘That was just an example obviously. Not black was what I meant.’ She frowns. ‘I don’t think you’re really entering into the spirit of this, Pearl.’

‘I like black. Anyway, you’ve changed the subject.’

There’s a pause.

‘Well, I’m sorry if I upset you. I didn’t realize you’d be worried.’

‘Are you? You don’t seem very sorry.’

‘Yes, of course I am, darling. I don’t want you to be upset. But I’m here now, aren’t I?’

‘I suppose.’

She’s finally got the window open and is sitting on the sill, blowing a plume of smoke into the clear morning. I watch her, wondering.

‘So go on then,’ I say at last. ‘What’s it like?’

‘What?’ she asks.

‘You
know
what.’

She gives me a caustic little smile. ‘You’ll have to wait and find out for yourself.’

‘Oh great. That’s really cheered me up.’

She laughs. ‘You asked.’

‘Where then? Just tell me where you’ve been since I saw you in church.’

She sighs impatiently. ‘I told you, Pearl. I’m not going to talk about any of that.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because.’

‘Because what?’

‘Because it’s not for you to know. It’s not for anyone to know.’ She says it with an air of finality. I think about it for a while.

‘Would it rip a hole in the space-time continuum?’

‘No.’

‘Would my head explode?’

She raises an eyebrow. ‘Do you really want to find out?’

‘Oh, come on. Can’t you just give me a clue?’

‘A clue?’

‘Without actually saying anything.’

‘You want me to do a
mime
of the afterlife?’

‘Maybe.’ I suppose it does sound a bit feeble.

‘Oh, OK,’ she says. ‘Sure. And then maybe you could try to express infinity through the medium of – oh, I don’t know – tap dance?’

‘No need to be sarcastic.’ I lie down on my bed and put my hands behind my head. ‘I just want to know what happens.’

‘And you will, my love, you can be sure of that. But for the moment
life
is complicated enough. Just concentrate on that for now.’

She turns, blowing smoke out of the window. ‘How’s it been anyway, at school?’

I think back over it. I’ve been back for three weeks now. The first few days were excruciating, everyone either talking loudly about nothing in particular in case they upset me or
squeezing my arm in a heartfelt way. Then they all forgot. Miss Lomax, the new Head, had called me to her office for a ‘chat’.
It must be hard coming
back to school,
especially with the exams coming up, but a bit of normality will probably help.
Normality! I almost laughed out loud when she said that. But I didn’t. She gave me a big spiel about the
school counsellor and how important it was not to bottle things up.
And of course I’m always here if you need to talk,
she said, looking at her watch as she ushered me out.

I’d rather chop my own leg off,
I said, but only to Molly afterwards.

‘It’s been fine,’ I say to Mum.

‘I’m so glad you’ve got Molly to look after you,’ she says. ‘She’s such a good friend. I always said she was like a second mum, didn’t I? Reminding you
about your homework. Making sure you had everything you needed for school. She’s a treasure that girl.’

‘We’re on study leave now anyway,’ I say quickly, trying to steer the conversation away from Molly. Not that I’ve been doing much studying. Molly keeps trying to get me
to go to the library to revise with her, but I can’t face it. Anyway, Ravi’s always there too, studying for his A levels, and I don’t want to play gooseberry, thanks very
much.

‘And how’s . . . everything else?’

‘Like what?’

‘Well, you know. Rose? Is she OK?’ She says it lightly, as if she’s just making conversation. But I know she’s not.

What if that’s the only reason she’s here? To make sure The Rat’s OK? Maybe she hasn’t really come to see me at all. I start to panic. What if she realizes how much I
hate The Rat? She’d disappear then for sure, and I’d never see her again. I can’t let her know.

I don’t look at her. ‘Oh,’ I say. ‘Yes, she’s fine.’

‘But she’s not home yet,’ Mum says. It’s a statement, not a question.

‘How do you know?’

‘Too quiet,’ she says. ‘Houses with babies in are much noisier than this.’

‘She’s still in hospital,’ I say. ‘Dad too, most of the time. But she’s fine.’

Mum watches me, waiting for me to say something more. ‘Anyway,’ I say quickly, trying to move on from the subject of The Rat, ‘you’re right. I’d better get going or
I’ll be late.’

She pauses, as though she’s going to say something, but then seems to change her mind. ‘Yes of course. What is it today?’

‘English,’ I say, but I just lie there looking up at the patch of brown on the ceiling where rainwater must have seeped through, years ago by the look of it. I don’t want to
leave her.

‘Well, go on then,’ she says. I sit up and look at her.

‘I thought you’d come when I needed you,’ I say at last. ‘But you didn’t.’

She watches me, perched on the window sill. ‘When have you needed me?’

I think about it. ‘All the time.’

She laughs. ‘I can’t be with you all the time.’

‘Why not?’

‘Well, apart from anything else, it would drive us both completely stark staring mad. You’d kill me if I wasn’t already dead. Or vice versa. You know how we argue, sweetheart,
if we have to spend more than two hours together in a confined space.’

‘No we don’t.’ I think about it. ‘Not really.’

She raises an eyebrow. ‘Remember that week in Barmouth when it rained non-stop and we couldn’t leave the caravan? You said you needed counselling after that holiday. You said you
were suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder.’

It’s funny, I’d forgotten about that bit. I’d remembered the one sunny day when we all had ice cream on the beach and Mum and me buried Dad in the sand. But I can’t deny
she’s right.

‘And what about when you had your appendix out and I took a week off work to look after you?’ she continues. ‘You said you’d pay me to go back to work. You got on your
knees and begged me.’

I groan, remembering. ‘You kept trying to cook me things.’

‘Yes.’

‘And then expecting me to eat them.’

‘Yes.’

‘And you kept making me watch
The Sound of Music
and then you’d sing along.’

‘Of course.’

‘Really loudly.’

‘Exactly.’

‘And out of tune.’

She stops and stares at me. ‘
Out of tune?
I don’t think so, Pearl. I have an excellent singing voice. Loud perhaps. Out of tune, no.’

‘Flat as a pancake,’ I laugh. ‘And that’s being kind.’

She’s about to retaliate when she stops herself and smiles. ‘You see? You’re just proving my point. We’re arguing already.’

‘You’re arguing.’

‘Look. No one wants to spend twenty-four hours a day with their mother, dead or alive. Now come on. Shift. You need a good breakfast before exams.’

‘I’m not hungry.’ I haven’t really been able to face food since Mum died, but today it’s even more true than usual. ‘Anyway, I don’t care about the
exams. What’s the point?’

She stares at me.

‘The point is you’re brilliant, my love, and I don’t want you messing everything up because of me and my bad timing. I’m not having everyone blame me. “Poor Pearl,
she’d have gone to Oxford AND Cambridge and won the Nobel Prize and written a string of international bestsellers—” she breaks off to take a breath, “if it hadn’t been
for that no-good mother of hers kicking the bucket at the wrong moment.” I won’t have it. Now come on. No more self-pity. Go and have a shower.’

I haul myself off the bed.

‘But come and give me a kiss first,’ she says. I walk over to her and let her kiss me on the cheek. Then I lean on the window sill with her. It’s been raining during the night,
but the sky is a perfect pale blue now, and the air so clear and fresh that everything looks new and bright.

‘Are you nervous?’ she asks.

‘Not really. I just want it to be over.’

She puts an arm round me and I rest my cheek against hers for a moment. She smells of smoke and perfume.

‘How?’ I say. ‘How can you be here?’

She shrugs. ‘You wanted to see me, didn’t you?’

I know she’s avoiding the question.

‘You will come back, won’t you?’

‘Course.’ She flicks her cigarette stub out of the open window. It soars in a perfect arc and lands in the fishpond, disappearing under the algae to join my mobile phone. ‘Now
go on. You’ll be brilliant, my love.’

When I come back from my shower, the bedroom is empty.

I knew it would be, but I cry anyway.

As soon as I hear the sound of Dad’s key in the front-door lock, I switch off my bedside light and my iPod and pretend to be asleep. He’s late back from the
hospital tonight; it’s almost ten thirty. I always make sure I’m in bed by the time he gets back otherwise he just goes on and on about The Rat: what amazing progress she’s making
and how he can pick her up and give her cuddles now, and how the nurses are dying to see me and maybe I can go in soon. It doesn’t matter how bored I look, he just keeps on and on.

The front door slams and I hear his footsteps on the stairs. Every night my bedroom door opens. A rectangle of light from the landing falls across the dark of my room, but it doesn’t quite
reach me. He never says anything, just watches me for a few seconds. I’m rubbish at pretending to be asleep; I always was, even as a kid. I always forget to breathe. I don’t know
whether he knows I’m pretending. In the end the door always closes.

But tonight something’s different. The door doesn’t close.

‘Pearl?’ Dad whispers. My heart thuds. Something’s happened. I open an eye a tiny bit to try to see his face, but I can only make out his silhouette against the landing
light.

‘Pearl?’ He says it louder this time. Panic rises inside me. What if something’s wrong with The Rat? What if I’m pleased?

He walks over to the bed and sits down. ‘Are you awake?’

I don’t speak.

‘They’ve said she can come home soon, Pearl.’ I can hear the excitement in his voice. ‘Rose. They’ve said she’s nearly strong enough to leave the hospital. If
she keeps improving it could just be weeks till she’s here at home with us.’

He couldn’t wait to tell me. I lie there, not breathing.

‘Pearl?’

He wants me to sit up and smile and hug him. He wants me to be happy. I want it too. But I don’t know how.

‘Mmmm,’ I say, trying to sound as though I’m still asleep. I roll over, away from him, to face the wall.

He doesn’t move for a moment. I can feel his eyes on my back. I can feel his disappointment. A hot tear trickles sideways down my nose. I want him to say something. I want him to stroke my
hair like he used to when I was a kid and I’d had a nightmare. He’d always be the one who came when I woke up, and then he’d stay with me till I went back to sleep. I didn’t
have to tell him that I needed him; he just knew. He understood then how scared I was, how alone and lost I felt, lying in the dark.

But now he just gets up and walks away. Through my closed lids I see the room go dark as he shuts the door behind him.

‘Do you need any help at all?’

The shop assistant gives Dad a bright smile. She can obviously see we haven’t got a clue. We’re standing in front of the fleet of buggies on the shop floor, lined up against us like
an army.

Yes. We need help.

‘What is it you’re looking for today? Do you have any particular requirements or was there a specific model you were interested in?’

Dad looks at her, bewildered, and a hot wave of embarrassment washes over me. All the other customers in the Baby Department seem to know what they’re doing: women resting their hands on
their big smug baby bumps, men holding wriggly toddlers. Dad and I are all wrong: too sad and thin and quiet. I worry that they’ll notice, the happy, noisy people. They’ll sense
we’re bad luck. Or are they too busy holding hands and laughing and wiping their children’s noses? I shrink down into my clothes.