Beside Myself Read online

  16

  A Saturday afternoon and Mother and Akela have gone off to buy furniture for the little room upstairs at the front of our house. Ellie is playing at Jessica’s house but I wasn’t asked, so instead I have been brought round to Mrs Dunkerley’s since it seems I am not to be trusted on my own.

  ‘Yes, dear. Don’t you worry. You take your time,’ says Mrs Dunkerley to Mother, clasping her hands up under her chin like a woman sending a soldier off to war in an old film. ‘We’ll be just fine, won’t we?’

  I scowl up at the adults. There is a starry look about Mother’s eyes and Akela is standing with his arm round her like she is a prize turnip he is exhibiting at the church harvest fete. It seems a lot of fuss about a trip to boring old John Lewis.

  ‘There now,’ says Mrs Dunkerley as we wave Mother and Akela off. ‘I expect you’re very excited about your Mummy and Mr Greene going to buy all that new furniture, aren’t you? What a wonderful time it must be for the whole family.’

  I don’t say anything. First, because Mother has never been Mummy and that is obviously not her name. And second because what kind of a stupid thing to say is that? It’s not like the furniture is going to come alive and do a dance or perform magic tricks. It is going to be furniture like everyone else has in every other house ever: a chest of drawers and a wardrobe that stands there saying nothing. Personally, I don’t know why there has to be anything in there at all. I like it clear and empty like it was when Mother boxed up all the things from before Father’s suicide; when the Pointless Creations got carried down the stairs and out to the garden, the bright streaks of colours on their canvases winking as they disappeared through the French doors, one by one.

  Suicide. That’s what we call the Unfortunate Decision now in the interests of Getting Things Out in the Open like the doctors suggest – except that no one tells you whether it’s the same as dying or something else. Suicide. It sounds like something you might order in the French bistro Akela takes us to when it’s Mother’s birthday. ‘I’ll have the suicide with extra sauce,’ I can imagine Mother saying in that tight voice she uses with waiters. ‘And could you make sure the meat is well done?’

  After the little room was emptied, I went in and stood there while Mother, Ellie and Akela watched Jim’ll Fix It downstairs. It was peaceful and I liked the way the sun threw a wash of gold over the walls, blurring the lines left by years of propping up the Pointless Creations, which in the end Mother burnt in a big colourful bonfire at the bottom of the garden. There were no belongings to nag at my brain in there, nothing to try to hem me into Ellieness. I could just stand in the golden space and look out over the street, with the bottom of the net curtain flicking in front of me, like a cat’s tail. I decided that room would be my place and it made me calm to think about going there when the rest of the world got too loud. Then one day I got back from school and there was a man in there up a ladder, whistling and painting away. Soon after that, the little bed with the bars up the sides came and the room went from calm and peaceful to tight and anxious, and I didn’t go in there any more.

  Mrs Dunkerley opens her back door and the smell of feet comes out. We push through the beaded curtain and I hold my hand up to stop the strands from whipping at my face.

  ‘There now,’ says Mrs Dunkerley with a big smile, like we have climbed a mountain. ‘Why don’t you go and have a sit-down in the living room and I’ll bring you a nice cup of tea?’

  It sounds like a question, but really I know it isn’t, so I give a nod and walk through to the living room and go to sit on the brown armchair next to Bill’s cage. On the television there is an ice rink and a man and a lady in sparkly purple clothes sliding around doing a dance. The lady’s skirt is very short and the man keeps picking her up and flipping her round to show her knickers and everyone claps each time he does.

  ‘Isn’t it lovely?’ says Mrs Dunkerley, coming through with a clinking tray. ‘Not as good as Torvill and Dean of course.’

  I think lovely isn’t the right word and I think if I was the lady I would be telling the man off and making him behave, but everyone else on the television seems to agree what a jolly good show it is so I give a smile and accept Mrs Dunkerley’s tea cup with good grace.

  ‘Biscuit?’ she says, jiggling the tin.

  I peer in and do a calculation. The ginger snaps have definitely been here since last year because I remember at Christmas when me and Ellie came to give Mrs Dunkerley her smellies they were here then. I can’t be sure about the Garibaldis because I suspect Mrs Dunkerley eats them when no one’s looking, but the currants in them make me think of squashed flies so I prefer to leave them alone. That leaves the digestives, which are anybody’s guess. I am about to pick out one of those when I see a glint of silver underneath and my heart does a leap. I rootle my fingers in and, even though it wouldn’t be allowed at home, I do a bit of digging around until I manage to pull out a Kit-Kat.

  ‘Thank you very much,’ I say, pleased now that Ellie isn’t here and at least this is one thing that I am getting that she won’t have this afternoon.

  Mrs Dunkerley sits down with a groan in the armchair by the gas fire, which is off because it’s summer. ‘There,’ she says.

  She looks at me. Behind her, the clock on the mantelpiece gives a whir. Soon it will chime.

  ‘So,’ she says. ‘Helen, isn’t it?’

  A thrill floods through me. ‘Yes,’ I say.

  ‘Ah yes, Helen of course,’ says Mrs Dunkerley. ‘What a mercy to get it right for a change. You and your sister are like two peas in a pod.’

  And even though it is just Mrs Dunkerley, I am so pleased to hear someone calling me my name, someone recognising me, that I sit very still holding the Kit-Kat like the happy feeling is a very hot cup of tea and I might spill it if I say a word.

  On the television another couple of ice dancers are coming out from the crowd. You can tell that the man is itching to get up to the knicker-showing tricks, but this lady looks fiercer and whizzes around making spiky shapes with her hands. I am hopeful that she might do some kicking and hitting if the man tries to get too rude.

  ‘So, Helen,’ says Mrs Dunkerley after another click and whir from the clock. ‘What do you think of my new Bill?’

  I turn and look at the cage and inside up on a bar I see that Bill has changed from blue to green. A tinkle of notes comes from the clock and the new Bill bobs and bows like he is taking the credit.

  ‘What happened to the old Bill?’ I say.

  ‘I’m afraid he passed on, sweetheart,’ says Mrs Dunkerley, slurping at her tea.

  ‘You mean he died?’ I say.

  ‘Yes,’ says Mrs Dunkerley. ‘He did. He died.’

  I watch the new Bill hooking his beak on to the bars and hoicking himself round the cage.

  ‘Was it suicide?’ I say.

  Mrs Dunkerley looks at me hard for a moment.

  ‘Do you know what?’ she says. ‘I’ve just remembered. You’ll never guess what I found in Oxfam. Now where did I put it?’

  And she levers herself up and starts thumping around the living room, opening cupboards and drawers to show all sorts of higgledy-piggledy business inside – much worse than the little front bedroom in the very most unfortunate moments after the Unfortunate Decision, back when the hours went topsy-turvy and Mother slept all day and got up and wandered about at night.

  ‘Aha!’ goes Mrs Dunkerley, holding out a cardboard box. It is a game of Connect 4 that someone has had to Sellotape round the sides of to make the lid stay on. ‘You children always love this, don’t you?’

  I want to say that we used to love it when we were, like, six, but now we are seven-nearly-eight it is a bit babyish. But I remember my manners like Helen would and instead I say ‘Oh yes, my favourite’ and try to look pleased.

  While Mrs Dunkerley sets up the game on the little table between our chairs, I open the Kit-Kat to give myself a reward. I slice down the foil and make the snap like they do in the adverts, but when I t
ake a bite, instead of smooth sweetness and then a crunch, I get soggy grittiness in my mouth, and when I look down, I see green fur where the chocolate should be.

  My throat seizes up and my stomach gives a jerk, but Helen would not sick it up, so I close my eyes and make myself swallow it down, fighting back the tears that come a bit from feeling ill and a bit from the shock of nastiness where a nice thing should be. I put the rest of the Kit-Kat on the arm of the chair and play the game, giving polite ‘oohs’ and ‘ahs’ when the boring counters go in and Helening as hard as I can. A picture comes of the fun Ellie and Jessica will be having in Jessica’s playroom, above the garage and away from the adults, where you can climb up a ladder and tell as many secrets as you like, but I push it aside and carry on with the game. If I can Helen it for all I’m worth, I think, maybe, even now, after all this time, it will still be possible for the truth to get recognised. Mrs Dunkerley will be so impressed with me that she’ll tell Mother how good Helen was, and maybe Mother and Akela will be so busy thinking about their new furniture that they’ll forget who is supposed to be who, and by the time Ellie gets back from Jessica’s clutching her make-your-own-fashion-design or whatever fun they’ve been up to today, it will be straight back to the old Ellie ways for her.

  I’m so keen to make the plan work that when Mrs Dunkerley points at the Kit-Kat and says there are children in Africa who would be glad of that food, I pick it up and gulp it down, not caring how it sticks to my teeth or sludges round my stomach so long as it works the magic and makes me Helen again. I play on, game after game, as much as Mrs Dunkerley wants, pleasing and thankyou-ing for all I’m worth. On the television, the ice skating has changed into Alice in Wonderland, and even though we’ve got it at home and can watch it any time we want, I keep half a polite eye on it to stop the game from boring my head off.

  At last, just after the Mad Hatter’s tea party and the unbirthday song, Mrs Dunkerley gets up with a groan.

  ‘Well, I’ll tell you something: that tea has gone right through me,’ she says. ‘Whatever you do, young Ellie, don’t get old.’

  And with that she stumps off out into the hall and up the stairs to the bathroom. I sit in the armchair with the stink of the ‘Ellie’ settling on me like the drops from a toilet freshener spray. On the television, Alice is wandering away from the Mad Hatter’s tea party into the Tulgey Wood and the trees are closing in. A fiddling feeling comes over me and I don’t want to sit on my own. I turn and unhook the little door that opens Bill 2’s cage. Inside, Bill 2 is huddling on his swing. I reach in and wrap my fingers round his feathery body. Bill 2 jerks his head and puts his beak down to give me a nip, but I am bigger than him and he has to come with me.

  We sit, Bill 2 and me, and watch the cartoon, my fingers round him, making him behave. Every so often he gives a cheep and I feel his claws sharp against the palm of my hand and his little heart throbbing. When the dog with the brushes on its beard and its tail comes and sweeps the path up from around Alice’s feet, I laugh like I always do. Only this time it isn’t funny: the woods are very dark and the singing seems to swell with sadness and there is nowhere to go. The world becomes a tight place and every door is closed up tight, no matter how hard you scrunch your fists and bang on the wood.

  After the Cheshire Cat helps Alice back into the light, I look down at Bill 2. He has gone very still, like he is asleep except his eyes are open. I lay him down gently on the floor of his cage and sprinkle sawdust on top to keep him warm. Then I get up.

  ‘Goodbye, Mrs Dunkerley,’ I call up the stairs.

  ‘Oh, you’re going, are you, dear?’ calls Mrs Dunkerley’s voice. ‘Is your mother here?’

  ‘Yes,’ I shout.

  ‘All right then, sweetheart,’ calls Mrs Dunkerley. ‘Come again any time – and bring your friends.’

  I nod and let myself out of the back door. A streetlamp blinks on and somewhere up the road an engine is sputtering into life.

  17

  They pulled out of the car park in silence. She watched in the wing mirror as the police station shrugged when they went over the speed bump and slipped away behind them, like a butler backing out of a room. The radio whispered an easy-listening track, almost too quiet to hear.

  ‘You could just take me home,’ she said.

  Nick kept his eyes on the road.

  ‘After you nearly get killed wandering into traffic because of some infection from an accident I caused?’ he said, flicking down the indicator to pull off a roundabout. There was a quiver in his voice and a flush spreading on his cheeks. ‘You must be joking. You’re coming home with me. And you’re going to stay with us until you’re well.’

  She opened her mouth to say something else, but the words failed her. Her head felt heavy. Keeping it balanced on her shoulders was effort enough. The last few hours – the form-filling, the antibiotics they’d given her for the infected gash, the faces talking at her, uttering streams of calm, reasonable words – had taken their toll. Too prolonged an exposure to common sense nearly always had this effect on her and today her tolerance was especially low. The only bonus was the voices seemed to be equally whacked. She hadn’t heard a peep out of them in hours.

  Once they were on the dual carriageway, he said: ‘So what actually happened? Why did you go to that road?’

  She puffed out her cheeks. ‘Oh, I just freaked out, I guess,’ she said. ‘I don’t really know. The last thing I can remember, I was standing in the bank—’

  ‘The bank?’

  ‘Yeah, I went in there to try and get my ESA money – Employment Support Allowance. Only there was a problem and when I went in they told me it’d been stopped. I don’t really know what happened after that. I sort of stopped thinking.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Nick, pulling out to overtake a lorry. ‘So it wasn’t Helen then?’

  Smudge blinked. ‘Helen?’

  ‘You weren’t looking for Helen?’ he said. ‘I thought, you know, being on that road, in that particular spot, maybe it had something to do with her. With the accident. With you maybe wanting to see her.’

  Smudge batted the words away. ‘Oh no, that had nothing to do with it,’ she said. She looked at him. ‘Sorry.’

  They pulled back into the middle lane behind a coach carrying a load of school children on some trip. Those on the back seat turned round and began to gurn at them through the window. One boy with a tie knotted round his head pressed his nose against the glass in imitation of a pig.

  ‘How is she anyway,’ said Smudge. ‘Helen?’

  The word felt unfamiliar and forced in her mouth – a stopper jerking loose from a bottle.

  Nick flinched. ‘Oh, you know, much the same,’ he said. ‘There’s been no change for a while now. In the early days they thought she was improving, but she’s been stuck at the same level for ages. Weeks. She mumbles and jerks around from time to time. Her face pulls some of the old expressions. Sometimes, if you glance at her and look away quickly you can fool yourself into thinking she’s back. But she’s not there. Not really.’

  He turned to meet her eye and saw her look away.

  ‘But anyway,’ he said, clearing his throat, ‘you. That money issue. ESA, was it? That must be… quite a thing.’

  She shrugged.

  ‘Yeah, it did fuck me over somewhat.’

  A car cut in between them and the school bus, forcing Nick to jam on his brakes.

  ‘Idiot!’ he exclaimed. The mildness of the word shocked her.

  ‘Sorry,’ he muttered, and applied himself once more to the matter at hand. ‘But they can’t just do that, can they?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Stop the money? They can’t turn it off, just like that.’

  She snorted. ‘Seems like they just did.’

  ‘But surely, when you contact them and explain the situation—’

  ‘Oh yeah,’ said Smudge, nodding. ‘Sure. They’ll be very understanding. If I’m lucky they might sort it out in about six weeks.’

  �
��Six weeks!’ said Nick. ‘But that’s outrageous. What will you do for money in the meantime?’

  She shrugged. ‘Guess I’ll have to fall back on my extensive savings.’

  But he didn’t get the joke.

  ‘Six weeks,’ he said again, shaking his head. ‘That must be really difficult for some people. I mean, what do you do if you’ve got kids?’

  She shifted in her seat and kicked something. Looking down, she saw it was a Barbie doll. She bent down and picked it up.

  ‘Oh sorry, that’s Heloise’s,’ said Nick. ‘We’ve been looking for that.’

  ‘So you’ve got kids then?’ said Smudge, staring at the Barbie’s rigidly perfect features. ‘You and Helen.’