Apple and Rain (2 page)

She still hasn’t forgiven me.

Nana tips custard all over the steaming Christmas pudding she’s saved for Trish and Dad’s arrival and serves everyone a dollop in a reindeer-patterned bowl. ‘We can have the trifle for supper,’ she says. ‘So, tell me now, how’s the new house?’

‘It’s absolutely marvellous, isn’t it, Chris?’ Trish says. She touches Dad’s arm.

‘It’s a lot of work keeping up a garden, but we were sick of being stuck in that flat,’ Dad says.

Nana wipes her hands on her apron and sits down. ‘Oh, I wouldn’t give up my garden for anything. We have our own little herb patch now, don’t we, Apple?’

I pop a piece of pudding into my mouth. ‘Um-hmm,’ I say. It’s still scorching. I have to spit it back into the bowl to stop the skin peeling away from my gums.

Trish clears her throat.

Dad frowns. ‘I’ve warned you about your manners,’ he says.

When? Six months ago when you last bothered visiting?
I want to snap back. But I don’t.

‘It was boiling,’ I say. I put down my spoon. ‘Sorry.’

‘So, Apple, I hear you’re about to take your Grade Four in clarinet. That’s brilliant.’ Trish smiles, keeping her thin red lips pressed together.

I shrug. ‘Yeah, but I don’t enjoy playing it that much.’

‘But it’s a wonderful accomplishment to be able to play an instrument,’ Nana says.

‘I paid three hundred pounds for that clarinet, not to mention the cost of the lessons,’ Dad says.

‘
Three hundred pounds
? That’s more than our new coffee table cost,’ Trish announces.

I ignore her. ‘I didn’t say I was giving up. I just don’t
love
playing, that’s all.’ But what I do love about the clarinet is going to orchestra where I get to see Egan Winters.

Egan Winters can play the flute while kicking a football between his feet. He actually seems more like a drummer or a bass guitarist; he wears leather bracelets and ripped jeans and is without doubt the best-looking person in our whole school. Plus, he’s in the sixth-form, which means he isn’t immature like the boys in my class. I know he doesn’t see me. I know I’m only ‘that Year Eight girl with the ­clari­­­net’ to him, if anything. But I can’t stop my heart thumping every time I’m near him.

‘Teenagers are so bad at sticking with things. It’s because of all these new phones and apps and things,’ Trish says, as though she hasn’t heard me telling everyone that I am
not
giving up the clarinet. She tucks her wispy blonde hair behind her ears and daintily wipes her mouth with one of Nana’s linen napkins. ‘How much are these smarty-pants phones anyway?’ It isn’t a real question; she’s just trying to make Dad see how much I’m costing them. She’s trying to say,
Your kid is far too expensive
.

I push away my pudding. I really don’t feel like eating anything more. I hate Christmas. And I hate Trish. ‘I don’t feel well. Can I be excused?’

Dad sighs. ‘You look fine to me,’ he says. He’s trying to act serious, but he’s wearing a gold paper hat from one of the crackers and I can’t help smirking. ‘Apollinia, it’s important you learn to persevere with things. You can’t be someone who gives up as soon as you get bored or the going gets tough. You don’t want to be one of those people, do you?’ His voice has gone all tight, and I wonder whether he’s thinking about Mum: how she split up with him when she found out they were going to have a baby; how she ran away when she realised you couldn’t stuff a baby into your handbag like a chihuahua.

Dad’s worst nightmare must be that I turn out like my mum.

Nana stands up and pours Dad some more red wine. ‘Why don’t we open our presents now and talk about this another time?’ She doesn’t like arguments at Christmas. She’s into peace and joy.

Dad is staring at me. He isn’t speaking. He seems mesmerised by something in my face.

‘Chris?’ Trish says. She taps him and he flinches.

‘We will continue this discussion,’ he says to me.

‘Presents!’ Nana says, and we follow her to the plastic tree in the sitting room where a few small, sad boxes sit waiting to be unwrapped.

I get a new pencil case and a book token from Nana, and an Argos gift card from Dad and Trish. I don’t know what I’m meant to get in Argos, but I say thank you then sit in front of the TV with my legs draped over Derry, waiting for Christmas to be over.

EastEnders
is on and when Nana notices, she quickly changes the channel. ‘Don’t you watch soaps, Bernie?’ Trish asks. Nana’s name is Bernadette. Trish is the only person I know who calls Nana ‘Bernie’.

Nana points at me. ‘Not appropriate,’ she says.

‘I’m not a baby,’ I say.

‘You’re not an adult either. When you are, watch what you like,’ Nana says.

Trish pretends to bite down on the tip of her thumb. ‘Oops. Hope I haven’t opened a can of worms,’ she says. If I had the courage, I’d slap her right across the face.

‘
Chitty Chitty Bang Bang
is on,’ Nana says. She forages for the remote control.

Trish helps her search and then draws in her breath gently. ‘Oh, I almost forgot. Here’s another gift,’ she says. She hands me a package. Dad starts to chew the inside of his cheeks.

I peel back the tape. It’s a white T-shirt. ‘Thanks,’ I mutter, without taking off all the paper.

‘You didn’t unwrap it properly,’ Nana says.

‘You didn’t
read
it,’ Trish says.

I shake open the T-shirt. Written in swirly letters are the words
Big Sis
. I turn to Dad, who is pink around the jaw. Nana is staring at Trish with her mouth open.

‘You’re having a
baby
?’ I say.

‘What lovely news,’ Nana says. She rushes at Dad and kisses him like he’s her own son, which is what people always assume when they see them together. But he isn’t. Dad was simply unlucky enough to be dating my mum when she got pregnant, and Nana always felt sorry for him, like he wasn’t as much to blame for a baby coming along as Mum was. So Mum couldn’t go to university, but Dad took a train to Liverpool a month before I was born and spent the next three years studying economics and getting drunk. Mum was stuck in Brampton-on-Sea and by the time Dad came back from university, she was gone. She’d had enough of changing nappies and waiting for Dad’s help.

And she’d had enough of me too
, I think.

I fold the T-shirt and tuck it under Derry’s paws.

‘We found out a few weeks ago,’ Trish says. Her face is full of pride.

Dad looks a bit sad.

‘You must be delighted,’ Nana says. She is smiling so much it must hurt.

‘We’re thrilled,’ Trish says. She kisses Dad hard on the lips right in front of Nana and me. A bit of custard-flavoured sick rises in my throat.

Nana laughs nervously. ‘I’m going to have to get out my knitting patterns,’ she says.

‘Wait until we know what we’re having, Bernie. I hate to see a baby in yellow,’ Trish says, even though she made her bridesmaids wear yellow all day for her stupid wedding.

I hold Derry’s collar and lead him out of the room. ‘I think he needs to pee,’ I say, but no one is listening.

After Derry’s done his business, I let him into the kitchen and close the door. I sit on the back steps. The ground is icy. The air is thick and hazy with frozen fog.

‘You’ll get piles,’ a stranger’s voice says. I look up but it’s too dark to see anything. I stand, afraid of who’s watching, and see a boy by my back fence. ‘Haemorrhoids are nasty things. Can’t say I even know what they are though.’

‘Why are you in my garden?’ I ask.

‘Because I’m talking to you,’ he says. ‘There’s a big gap in this fence. Someone should repair it.’

‘I know there is, but until now no one decided to use it as a gate.’ I came outside to be alone. I’m not in the mood for people. ‘You’re trespassing,’ I tell him.

‘You’re right. Someone call the police!’ he shouts.

He steps over Nana’s flower beds and stomps up our garden. He’s wearing a jumper with a giant frog on it and a pair of green wellies that are far too big for him. His cheeks and forehead are smeared with what looks like black warpaint.

‘Are you going into combat?’ I ask.

‘Sort of. Dad forgot to go shopping. I reckon we’ll be having pasta and rice pudding for Christmas dinner. Mum’s furious, so I’m hunkering down outside until it blows over.’

I noticed a new family move into the house behind ours a few weeks ago. It had been empty for so long, I thought it would stay that way – become a home for spiders, mice and homeless people.

‘I think your house is haunted,’ I tell him. I’m being mean, but I’m not really sure why.

‘Yep. It’s totally haunted. I hear ghoulish whispers at night. I’m not worried though; it’ll keep the robbers away.’

I gaze at the moon.

‘So why are you out here? Shouldn’t you be working your way through a box of After Eights?’ he says.

‘Not that it’s any of your business, but my dad and stepmum just told me they’re having a baby, and my nan is trying to make me act like I’m pleased. So if you could leave me alone to be depressed, I’d appreciate it.’

‘Ugh. Babies are so boring. I don’t know why everyone gets all freaky around them.’

I shrug and look through the kitchen window into the sitting room where Trish is laughing and clapping. ‘I’d better go inside,’ I say.

‘OK,’ he says. He walks away. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Apple,’ I say hesitantly.

‘Apple? Like Apple Blossom?’

I blink. Normally when I tell kids my name, they make a nasty joke about Crab Apples or Bad Apples or go on and on about iPads.

Not that Apple is even my real name. My given name is Apollinia Apostolopoulou, which hardly anyone is able to pronounce. So instead of even trying to get people to say it, I tell them my name is Apple. The Apostolopoulou bit is still there; I can’t do anything about that, and I often wonder why Mum even gave me Dad’s surname. She wasn’t going out with him when I was born. And I don’t think she loved him. But she went ahead and chose a Greek first name too. There must have been a reason. When she returns, I’m going to ask her all about it.

I wish she were here now. I wish she’d never left me in the first place.

‘My real name is Apollinia,’ I tell him. ‘But people have been calling me Apple since I was a baby.’

‘Cool. All right. Well, nice to meet you, Apple. I’m Del.’ He hops over Nana’s gnome. Its fishing rod is broken. ‘Oh, and Happy Christmas.’ He vanishes through the gap in the fence.

‘Happy Christmas,’ I say quietly, even though it’s anything but happy.

The back door opens. ‘What are you doing out here?’ Nana asks.

‘Nothing.’

‘Do you want to catch your death? Come inside.’

‘I don’t mind catching my death,’ I say.

Nana tuts. ‘Don’t talk nonsense.’

I pick at my nails. ‘Nana, did Mum send a message? Did she email you?’

‘Wouldn’t I have told you? No, she didn’t. I haven’t heard from her in about a year, Apple. You know that.’

‘How hard is it to send a card?’ I say. At least she could pretend to remember us. Give us a bit of hope.

‘Stop worrying about that. It’s Christmas. And you’ve had some lovely news. A little brother or sister, Apple, like you always wanted. Now let’s go inside and crack open that tin of Quality Street.’

‘You bought Quality Street?’

‘Of course I did,’ she says. I think for a minute she might hug me, but she doesn’t. She nods briskly and pulls me inside.

‘That’s a good girl,’ she says. ‘Now close the door behind you. It’s bitter out.’

4

In English, our first lesson after the holidays, I sit next to Pilar and tell her Dad and Trish’s news.

‘But babies are so
cute
,’ Pilar says.

‘They might be cute, but they’re a lot of work. I hardly see Dad as it is.’

Pilar glances at her wrist. ‘Ms Savage isn’t usually late. Do you think she’s sick? She was coughing a lot last term.’

‘She smokes, that’s why she was coughing.’ I say. ‘Did you get a new watch?’

‘I got it for Christmas. The hands are made of real gold. What did you get?’

‘Argos vouchers.’

‘Seriously? What are you going to buy with
those
?’

‘An electric toothbrush.’ I’ve already looked online. It’s the only thing that interests me. ‘Apparently it only takes one minute to brush which will save me three minutes every single time and six minutes a day. Within a year I’ll have saved thirty-six and a half hours.’

Pilar looks unimpressed. ‘If you have any money left over you could get a bedside cabinet.’ She laughs, and then so do I, and we keep laughing and making jokes about what we could buy from Argos, until a tall man with sideburns and wearing a silky green scarf sweeps into the room. The class goes quiet. The man plops a pile of papers on Ms Savage’s desk.