The Girls (6 page)

They were discussing the sisters’ grandfather, the one who’d been about to arrive when they were there on Friday night.

‘Our granddad has to have one of his feet amputated,’ Willow whispered in her ear.

Pip recoiled. ‘Ooh.’

‘Yeah. It’s all swollen up and bleeding and his little toe’s gone black and they told him in Africa they’d have to amputate it and he said no way, you’re not cutting my bloody foot off, and he came to London because he thought they’d say they didn’t need to cut his foot off, but they do.’

‘Yeah, and he is so pissed off,’ said Catkin.

‘And it means he has to stay here for, like, a whole week.’

‘Maybe more,’ added Fern.

‘And Mum’s in a really bad mood.’

‘We’re all in a really bad mood,’ said Catkin, with a roll of her eyes.

The tall man with the iPod made a strange noise just then and moved jerkily from foot to foot. Pip saw Dylan put a gentle hand on his arm and say, ‘You all right, Rob?’

The man called Rob nodded, over-emphatically, and adjusted the plugs in his ears.

Another boy appeared then, a boy Pip had seen around, red-haired, younger than the rest of them, probably about eight or nine. He was holding a football. ‘Wanna kick a ball?’ he said to Dylan, flicking his ginger fringe out of his eyes. Dylan said, ‘Yeah, OK.’ The boy turned to Tyler. ‘You?’

Dylan and Tyler both nodded. Then Willow was on her feet and then Catkin. Soon it was just Fern and the tall man with the iPod left at the benches with Pip and Grace. Fern was the middle of the three sisters. She was the quietest and the strangest. Her hair was shaved above her ears and she had a whole row of tiny sleepers arced along one of her ears that looked quite painful. She always had weird stuff written on her hands and picked the skin around her fingernails until her nail beds bled. Her eyes were really big, almost too big for her face, and slightly red-rimmed as though she was constantly on the verge of tears. And she carried a piece of cream silk with her all the time that she ran across her top lip, obsessively. She sat now with her knees pulled up to her chest, watching the others as they scuffed the football around, pick-pick-picking at her fingernails, rub-rub-rubbing the piece of silk. Then suddenly Dylan turned to them and called out, ‘Grace. Pip. You playing?’

Pip felt her heart fill with blood and throb beneath her ribs. She turned to Grace. They nodded at one another and then at Dylan. Pip couldn’t play football. She didn’t even like football. But she didn’t care. Dylan knew their names. He knew their names and he’d asked them to play. She could feel the nervous energy coming off her big sister in waves. It was coming off her too, coming off her so strong she was scared someone else might be able to see it.

She saw Tyler steal a look at her and then give the same look to Grace. Then she saw Tyler and Fern exchange a strange look. She ignored the smoke-signals, beamed at Dylan and ran towards the ball. She didn’t even know where the goal was, she just knew this was sink or swim and if she wanted to be part of this gang she needed to get her feet wet.

Dear Daddy,

Today we played with the gang! At last! It all started on Friday. We were out in the garden after school and the sisters were out there and then it started to rain a bit so they went inside and then the youngest one, who’s also the friendliest one, Willow, said why don’t you come in? They have the best apartment on the garden. Totally. It’s massive and all the rooms are huge. And we were there for the whole afternoon, until seven o’clock. They’ve got a really nice dog called Scout, and Willow’s got a chinchilla in her room called Chester, and her sister Fern’s got two rats called Kurt and Courtney. And they are home-schooled! They’re about the luckiest kids in the whole world!

Anyway, Willow is really nice, except she never ever stops talking or moving. But the middle sister, Fern, is kind of strange. I think she might be depressed. Or maybe even a bit autistic. And their oldest sister, Catkin, she’s OK, a bit full of herself, thinks because she’s the oldest of the gang that she knows everything and that we should all kind of worship her. So, it’s not like they’re the greatest girls ever in the world or anything. But it’s good to have got in with them because they know all the other children on the garden. So this morning me and Grace went outside and they were all there and this boy called Dylan – who I think Grace is in love with, but don’t tell her I said that, she’d kill me! – asked us to play football and it was so much fun. I even scored a goal and all the kids rushed over and picked me up. Well, all of them except Tyler. I think she hates us. She’s Dylan’s best friend. They’ve been best friends since they were babies apparently. Willow told me that Tyler used to walk around the garden when she was a toddler screaming Dylan’s name for hours, didn’t stop until Dylan’s mum brought him out. Everyone in the garden thought it was really cute and funny. And they went to the same nursery together and were in the same class at primary school for a while too. But Dylan got a bursary to a private school in year three because he’s so clever. I think Tyler’s a bit neglected – that’s what Willow says anyway; her mum doesn’t look after her properly. That’s why she’s always outside, because there’s nothing for her at home.

Oh. And there was this other boy in the gang today. Except he’s not a boy. He’s twenty-six. And guess what? He’s Dylan’s big brother! He’s called Robbie and he’s learning disabled and special needs and he lives in a residential care home most of the time, but he comes home for holidays and stuff. He’s kind of weird, but not scary-weird. Just like he’s in his own little world. Dylan really loves him. Dylan really looks out for him. You know, I think Dylan is about the nicest boy I’ve ever met. Apart from you, of course!

Love you, Dad. When are you coming home?

Your Pipsqueak

‘Mrs H.!’

Adele paused, mid-thought, and raised her face to the air like a squirrel hearing an acorn fall. Except this was no acorn. It was her enormous, soon-to-be-one-footed father-in-law. The girls were still on half-term and Adele had been planning to spend the week editing a neighbour’s memoirs. Rhea, from the second-floor flat in the block in the corner. Eighty-four years old, a Holocaust survivor from Hungary. Rhea remembered Leo and his brothers as babies. Her own babies were already grandparents and she shared her flat with her nineteen-year-old grandson whom she referred to as her roomie.

Adele had been greedily awaiting this break from teaching the girls, but instead of spending her days sitting out on the terrace with a mug of tea and Rhea’s manuscript, she was spending it tending to the needs of an old man with a very painful foot. The foot itself; well, she didn’t want to dwell too long on the physical reality of the thing. How he could have got from Bangui via Casablanca on a combined thirteen-hour flight with a foot that was virtually rotten to the core and with at least one gangrenous toe, she had no idea. His wife, a former nurse, had been tending to his foot at home. But his wife’s mother was having cancer treatment and as much as Gordon had probably tried to bully and cajole Affie into travelling with him, she hadn’t been able to. Adele had already said there was
no way
she was even going to look at the foot again, let alone touch it. So they’d arranged for a private hospital to send a nurse twice a day to dress it and medicate him. But in between times and while they awaited confirmation for the operation date, Adele was playing nurse.

She put down her mug and turned to look through the patio doors. Gordon was stretched out on the sofa, covered with a blanket, one hand in a packet of Cadbury’s Eclairs, the other on the remote control. He was peering out of the window and as Adele walked into the room he said, ‘Ah, Mrs H. You came! Thank God!’

Adele forced a smile. ‘What can I do for you, Gordon?’

‘Well, first of all can you show me how to get this blasted TV to show me something that isn’t a load of middle-aged hags screaming about who does or doesn’t do the housework?’ He flapped the remote at the television, which was showing
Loose Women
. ‘And secondly’ – he adjusted his position slightly and winced – ‘I’m afraid I do rather need to visit the bathroom again. If you wouldn’t mind just giving me a hand out of this thing.’ He gestured at the sofa and grimaced.

Adele’s teeth ground together with the effort of looking pleasant. ‘No problem.’ She offered Gordon her shoulder, wrapped her arm around his back and used her spare hand to pull him up by the elbow.

He puffed and gasped. ‘Christ,’ he hissed, finding his balance. ‘Christ.’

He leaned against Adele for a moment. She gripped his elbow, helping steady him. Then she passed him his stick. He took it from her and sighed. ‘Never thought it would come to this, Mrs H.,’ he said, sadly. ‘Really never did.’ Then he brightened a degree, turned to look out of the window at the communal gardens, smiled and said, ‘Some of the best years of my life out there. All those endless summers in the seventies, the little ones running about, everyone up to God knows what. Did I ever tell you about the girl who streaked across the lawn with a lampshade on her head? Nobody did ever work out who it was.’ He chuckled, caressing the wooden bird on his stick. ‘And whatever happened to that lovely girl, what was her name? Little blonde thing. Mother was the headmistress of the girls’ school up the road?’

‘Cecelia?’

‘Yes!’ he clicked his fingers. ‘Cecelia. That was the one. Pretty, pretty little thing. Whatever happened to her, I wonder?’

‘She still lives here,’ said Adele. ‘Her mum’s in a home now. But Cecelia still lives in the same flat. And she’s got a daughter now, same age as Fern. Tyler.’

His gaze turned to the window again. He licked his dry lips. ‘Lovely girl,’ he murmured. He turned slowly and headed towards the bathroom, shuffling in his huge slippered feet, pausing every now and then to let the pain subside, singing creakily under his breath as he went: ‘“Cecilia, you’re breaking my heart, you’re shaking my confidence daily,”’ giving a showgirl kick at the doorway and wiggling his large bottom just once before disappearing.

‘Good morning, Mrs Wild, this is Don Feild, I’m your husband’s treatment coordinator at St Mungo’s.’

Clare drew in her breath, fearing bad news.

‘I’m calling because things are progressing very well for Chris. We’ve been trying him on a brand-new medication. And we’re all completely amazed with the results. We’ve set up a meeting, later this week, for everyone in Chris’s team. To talk about the future.’

Clare pulled herself up on to one of the kitchen bar stools and said, ‘Yes?’

‘We were hoping you might want to come along.’

Clare fell silent for a moment. She’d kept her distance from Chris so assiduously these past few months that she’d almost forgotten she was allowed to be part of his life. ‘Not really. I mean, what’s the likely outcome of this meeting?’

‘Well, the way things are looking right now and going forward, my recommendations will be very strongly geared towards starting a discharge programme. Towards getting him home.’

‘Home?’ She pulled her spine from a hump into a straight line.

‘Mrs Wild, your husband is doing remarkably well. He’s responded so well to the medications that he’s barely the same man who came in here six months ago.’

‘But, home? What home? I mean, you don’t mean here …?’

‘Well, if not with you then another family member? Chris’s mother for example.’ She heard the sound of papers being moved about. ‘Susan Wild.’

‘But she lives in Switzerland.’

‘Yes, right, I see. Anyone else? Closer to home?’

‘No. I don’t know. But I don’t want him here. Under any circumstances.’

‘I really think it might be good idea for you to come and see him, Mrs Wild. To see how much he’s changed.’

‘What, the man who set fire to his children’s home without even knowing if they were in it or not?’

‘Well. Yes. And I understand, obviously, why you haven’t been to see him. But I also know that his main objective every day since he’s been here has been to get well enough to be accepted back into his family.’

Through the kitchen window Clare could see the girls. As with almost every moment of this warm and sunny half-term week, they were with the gang at the other end of the garden. They suddenly seemed unimaginably far away, as though they were on a boat drifting far from shore.

‘And if he finds us? If he comes here?’

‘Please don’t worry, Mrs Wild, nothing bad is going to happen. I promise you. No one will give Chris your new address and you will be absolutely safe. If that’s what you want.’ He paused, as though waiting for her to say something. ‘Anyway,’ he said after a moment. ‘I’ll call again at the end of the week. Let you know the outcome. But if everything goes according to plan, your husband will probably be discharged straight away.’

Six

Adele was standing at her back door holding a large wooden board piled high with wholesome-looking muffins and bars. She shouted out her daughters’ names and then indicated that everyone was welcome to help themselves too. The whole gang trooped across the lawn and into the Howeses’ back garden. ‘Fresh out of the oven,’ said Adele, pouring out plastic beakers of elderflower cordial.

Pip looked at the muffins and bars suspiciously. Were those raisins in there? And the bars looked as though they were full of seeds. She did not like seeds. Or raisins. ‘Help yourself, Pip,’ said Adele.

Pip smiled. She didn’t want to be rude. She picked up a muffin and tore off a small piece.

Dylan and Tyler took their snacks to the swinging wicker chair in the corner of the patio and squeezed themselves together inside its bulb-shaped basket. Tyler hooked her legs across Dylan’s lap. Crumbs from her muffin fell on to Dylan’s legs and she pushed them off, nonchalantly, with the side of her hand. Pip watched, curiously, somewhat enviously. She couldn’t imagine ever being like that with a boy, particularly a boy who wasn’t her boyfriend.