‘She had to go and live in the dump,’ Claire said. ‘And wear torn clothes.’
‘And she had a cornflakes box for her pillow,’ Margaret added.
‘And her only toy was a piece of paper that she had to make into shapes, even though she’d had piles of dolls and fuzzy felt in her house.’
I wept terrified tears, appalled at what I’d destroyed. I was single-handedly responsible for depriving my family of a home. All for being a little pig.
‘Can’t we get another house?’ I begged.
‘Oh no.’ They both shook their heads.’ Houses cost a lot of money.’
‘But I’ve got money in my tin,’ I offered. I would have given my life, let alone the fifty new pence I had in the red post-box tin that Auntie Julia had given me.
‘But the tin is locked in the house,’ Claire pointed out and the pair of them collapsed with malicious laughter.
Mum came back and said that we had to sit round the front so that the man would see us when he arrived. Neighbours offered us sanctuary and tea, but Mum said we’d better stay where we were. So Mrs Evans sent over a plate of banana sandwiches, which Claire and Margaret ate with gusto, while sitting on the grass. I couldn’t eat a thing. I would never eat again. Especially not Easter eggs.
People passing up and down the road looked at us with interest, as they made their way home from school or work for their early-seventies-style repast. Hurrying past us for their instant mash, followed by instant whip, humming a David Cassidy song, resplendent in their acrylic tanktops, waiting for the Vietnam war to end and the oil crisis to kick in.
Normally, I would have been mortified by the state of our family sitting in the front garden eating banana sandwiches in September. It was OK in summer but once everyone had gone back to school, it was no longer appropriate. I always had a keen sense of what other people thought of me. But this time I didn’t care. I didn’t give a feck.
Hollow-eyed, racked with despair, I stared at the passers-by.
‘Will the man really be able to let us back into our house?’ I asked Mum again and again.
‘Yesss! For Pete’s sake, Rachel, yesssss!’
‘And we won’t have to go and live in the dump?’
‘Where did you get this notion about the dump?’
‘Do you really think the man will come?’
‘Of course he will.’
But the man didn’t come. And afternoon moved into evening, the shadows lengthened and the temperature dropped. And I knew what I had to do.
I had to confess.
Dad arrived home before the man did. It turned out there was nothing wrong with the lock, Mum had just been using the wrong key. By then, of course, it was too late. I’d spilled my guts in an attempt to right the imbalance I’d wrought in the universe.
38
I decided not to use the Easter egg story. I feared that it didn’t paint me in a flattering enough light. So when group rolled around the following morning, I’d almost none of my life story written. Josephine was cross.
‘I’m sorry,’ I apologized, feeling as if I was back at school and hadn’t done my homework. ‘But I found it hard.’
Big mistake. Big, huge, enormous mistake with a double chin, thunder thighs and love-handles.
Josephine’s eyes glinted as if she was a tiger moving in for the kill.
‘Because there was so much noise in the dining-room,’ I cried. ‘I meant that kind of hard, not the other kind. I’ll do it tonight.’
But she was having none of it.
‘We’ll wing it now,’ she said. ‘You needn’t write anything, just tell us things in your own words.’
Shite.
‘It might be better if I had a think about it and then wrote it,’ I protested. I knew my protest was shoving me closer to having to do it, but I couldn’t stop myself. If I’d had any sense at all, I’d have pretended to be delighted about the impromptu suggestion. Because then she wouldn’t let me do it.
‘No time like the present.’ She smiled, knives in her eyes.
‘Right,’ she began. ‘Your sister was in to see you on Sunday, is that right?’
I nodded, and clocked my body language. At the mention of Helen, I’d closed up. My arms folded tightly around my body, my legs crossed and curled. This wouldn’t do. Josephine would draw all kinds of imaginary conclusions from the way I sat.
I peeled my arms off me and let them hang loosely by my side. I uncrossed my legs and opened them in such a relaxed way that Mike thought his luck was in. Hurriedly, uncomfortably aware that he’d had a good look at my gusset, I brought my knees firmly together.
‘By all accounts this sister of yours caused a bit of a stir on Sunday,’ said Josephine.
‘She always does,’ I said conversationally.
I shouldn’t have. You could smell Josephine’s excitement.
‘Is that right?’ she squeaked. ‘And I hear she’s a very attractive young woman.’
I winced. I couldn’t help it. It wasn’t that I minded Helen or any of my sisters being miles better looking than me, it was people’s pity that got me down.
‘And what’s the age difference between the two of you?’
‘Six years, she’s nearly twenty-one,’ I said, trying to keep any tone whatsoever out of my voice, so that nothing could be inferred.
‘You sound very flat,’ said Josephine. ‘Does her youth upset you?’
I couldn’t help but give a wry smile. It didn’t matter what I did, something negative would be read into it.
Josephine looked questioningly at my smile.
‘I’m just putting a brave face on it,’ I joked.
‘I know,’ she said, deadly serious.
‘No! Look, it’s a joke…’
‘You must have been very jealous when Helen was born,’ Josephine interrupted.
‘Actually, I wasn’t,’ I said, surprised. Surprised because Josephine was off-target. That she hadn’t reduced me to a gibbering, crying wreck the way I’d seen her do to Neil and John Joe.
Nah haaaa. Hope she’s good at dealing with failure.
‘I can hardly remember when Helen was born,’ I told her honestly.
‘OK then, tell us what it was like when Anna was born,’ she suggested. ‘What age were you?’
All of a sudden, I wasn’t so sure of myself. I didn’t want to talk about when Anna came.