‘Good. I’m back off to bed.’ He kissed her on the forehead.
Tears stung her eyes. She had a sliding feeling, as though she was slipping into the shadows, again peripheral and insignificant, a nuisance. She bit her lip and her eye caught a photograph of herself standing in the infamous brown-flowered dress, when it was too big for her. Almost belligerently, she stuck it down slap-bang in the middle of the first page of the album, a little wonky. She would be the star of this album. She could own her own story. Perhaps she was sick of being in the background, of questioning her decisions, of questioning her very existence. It was time to put herself at the very centre of her own life. And if that meant upsetting a few people along the way, then so be it.
Strangely, the very decision to be proactive, to stick that first photograph down, diminished the angst she felt about Rosie, and it helped her to find some peace that day, and finally some sleepiness too.
Chapter Fifteen
TOP SECRET
* * *
Dear Mummy,
* * *
Noah told me he wanted to put the policemens and policewomans – SOOOO CUTE – in the Worry Box at school. I laughed at him and I told him how to say it properly without the extra ssssss. But I think I do too. Not actually put them inside, like DUH! they wouldn’t fit, but put my thoughts about them inside. I have never put anything in the Worry Box. I bet Noah hasn’t either. I think the teachers would guess it was my writing and then call me into Mr Roderick’s office to tell me off for being a liar-liar pants of fire or something and I would want to kick Mr Roderick in the nuts (that’s what Max in Year 4 says every time he gets told off, which is A LOT).
* * *
If I did put it in the worry box then this is what I would write.
* * *
INVISIBLE INK ALERT: I almost hit Mrs E (can’t spell it or say it) with my silver shoe. Was she the one who called the police? I did NOT tell PC Conerly that you slammed the door on my wrist. I know you are worried that I did. You would be really, really, really, really, really, really cross if I had told her. Like this :((((((. But you always tell me to tell the truth. You say you’ll be very disappointed in me if I don’t tell you the truth. BLAH BLAH BLAH. See? Sometimes mummies are wrong. Sorry you got told off, mummy.
* * *
Why am I always such a peanut brain? Why peanut? Why not pine nut brain or a pumpkin seed brain or a raisin brain. Answers on a postcard!
* * *
Love,
Rosie xx
* * *
P.S. Will they come back?
Chapter Sixteen
My brain was packed full of worry. I barely had any space left to focus on small decisions. As soon as I brushed my teeth, I questioned whether I had or not. I stared into my drawer for my pyjamas before realising I was looking in the wrong drawer. I read my book in bed but I didn’t take in a word of it.
Unable to sleep once I had turned the light off, I climbed out of bed and crept in to see Rosie.
Her duvet was bunched up around her head. I pulled the duvet away, down over her splayed limbs and saw that her pink electronic diary lay across her open hand. The door of the diary was open. When I gently removed it from her, she frowned in her sleep.
I studied her features. They were neat while mine seemed untamed. Her nose, long and straight, like Peter’s, her black hair, as thick as a tree trunk in a ponytail, while mine disappeared to nothing. Her pale skin would freckle in the sun, while mine burnt. The muscles on her calves were stronger, shapelier than the spindles I had inherited from my mother. Rosie looked nothing like me. Had anyone else noticed?
I closed the pink plastic door shut on her secret scribblings, disciplined enough not to peek, in spite of my curiosity, and placed it by her bed. All of our secrets safely under wraps.
* * *
‘Rich and the kids are out on a ride. They’ll be back in a min,’ my sister said, plonking the meat on her over-cluttered surfaces and clattering around the copper pots and pans hanging up to bring down the largest boiling pot and two colanders, one plastic and one metal. Jackie pushed some old bills and colouring books from one end of the kitchen table to the other to make room for the colanders. Her kitchen was as haphazard and charming as mine was tidy and sterile.
‘Do you know how to use this?’ Jackie quipped when she handed me the peeler.
‘Of course I do. I use it to peel the carrots for my power shake every morning,’ I joshed.
‘Ha ha.’
Armed with a potato peeler each, the Aga warming our backs, we sat at the table with the colanders in our laps and peeled. I relished in the mundane task, realising how little time I made for cooking, or for my sister, for that matter.
‘How was Rosie this morning?’
‘Bit quiet. Bit too nice.’
‘When Stella is feeling guilty about something, she compliments me on my hair,’ Jackie said, raising an eyebrow.
I laughed.
‘I don’t know what you’re laughing at?’ Jackie grinned, flicking a straggle behind her back.
She was thin and dark, like me, but her thinness was more muscular, her arms had defined sinews visible under her skin, and her hair was permanently windswept, like my hair on a very bad day. She probably used washing-up liquid to wash it. Her pale skin was ruddy in circles on her cheeks and deeply lined around the eyes and across her forehead. She was older than me by two years, but most people would probably guess ten. Her concern about this was at zero. Unless it was horses she was grooming, she didn’t care about appearances. The eldest of her four children, Stella, learnt to French plait her own hair at five years old.
‘And how are you?’ she asked.
‘I’m not sure. I read a story online last night that was about this woman whose kids were taken away from her when her husband accused her of hitting them even though he was the nutter, not her.’
‘It does happen,’ Jackie replied, without looking up from her potato.
‘And once she got into the system, she couldn’t get out of it. She lost both her children. And her family and friends turned against her.’
Jackie’s hands stopped peeling for a second before she answered. ‘If you start reading stuff online, you’ll only freak yourself out.’
‘But what about Social Services?’
‘If they do get in touch, you have nothing to hide. It’ll be fine.’
But there was something niggling me, at the back of my mind, telling me it wasn’t fine, and I certainly didn’t want Jackie to think it was fine. None of it felt fine.
‘You reckon?’
‘Stop worrying. That woman next door has obviously got major issues.’
‘But Rosie does scream a lot,’ I said, quietly.
‘All kids scream.’
‘What if Mira calls the police every time she does?’
‘You can’t live like you’re stepping on eggshells.’
‘What do I do then? I can’t gag Rosie.’
Jackie paused, wiped a strand of hair from her eyes with the back of her hand and looked at me.
‘Do you ever think about going part-time?’
It was like a nasty little kick in the shin.
‘Do you really think her tantrums are about that?’
‘What do you think?’
‘I think she tantrums because she’s a pain in the arse.’
‘Keep your voice down, Gem,’ she said, even though she knew Rosie and Noah were well out of earshot, playing on the swings outside with Peter.
‘I give her everything any child could dream of and she throws it back in my face.’
‘I know she’s hard work.’
‘Hmmm,’ I said, doubtfully. ‘But you think I neglect her.’
‘Neglect her? Oh come on, Gemma, don’t put words in my mouth. I know how much you love Rosie, and so does Peter, and Mum. Don’t go getting all paranoid about us, of all people.’ Jackie was shaking her head at me.
‘You’d be paranoid too if you had the police asking you about whether you abuse your kids.’