‘Which do you want, Rochelle?’ Jude asked.
‘I don’t care,’ said Rochelle tearfully. ‘They’re all rubbish. I’m not stopping here.’
‘Well, I’m only here till the baby comes. I did say so, all along,’ said Martine.
Mum looked dazed. ‘How can I have a baby here?’ she said. ‘How can I look after you girls in a place like this? How can I? How?’
No one knew how to answer her. We trailed downstairs again, where Bruce was waiting in the living room, glancing anxiously out of the window at his van.
‘I’d better keep an eye on it,’ he said. ‘Shall we start unloading now?’
‘I can’t put our stuff in this house. It’s filthy!’ said Mum.
‘Well, I can’t keep it in the van, Sue,’ said Bruce. ‘I’m sorry, but I’ve got to get back sharpish. I thought this was going to be a simple moving job, cash in hand, not all day with lots of humping furniture around.’
He was hinting to Mum he wanted his money now, plus a tip for his trouble, but she wasn’t connecting with him. She was looking at the letter in the key envelope and then trying to make a call on her mobile.
‘Oh Gawd, I haven’t topped it up. Martine, here, lend us yours.’
‘But I want to phone Tony.’
‘Just hand me the blessed phone for two minutes, will you? I’m sick of you moaning on that mobile, telling tales on me to your wretched Tony. You’re acting like I’ve done this on purpose. I wasn’t to know.’
‘You should have found out first. You’re the mother. Though a fat lot of use you are as a mother,’ said Martine, shoving her mobile in Mum’s hand.
‘Shut it, Martine, I’m telling you,’ said Jude.
‘I’m trying my best,’ said Mum, sniffing. She dialled the number and then breathed out in an angry hiss. ‘Typical! They’ve put me on hold and they’re playing “We All Live in a Yellow Submarine”. It has to be some sick joke, right? We want to know where we’re going to live. Because it ain’t here. Don’t worry, kids. We’ll get this sorted soon.’
Mum had her head up, her chin jutting, her chest thrust out, her huge belly heaving. For a moment she looked like a comic book super-hero, able to snap her fingers and make our beautiful house appear as if by magic. But then I blinked and she was just my mum again, starting to bite her nails, her face screwed up with worry. It wasn’t going to happen.
Mum did her best. When she finally got through to the Housing Department she ranted, she raved, she wept, she pleaded. She said she had four children and was about to give birth to her fifth any minute. It didn’t make any difference.
Mum stabbed the off button on Martine’s mobile so hard she hurt her finger and had to nurse it in her armpit. ‘Pigs! Rotten useless unfeeling pigs!’ she said, rocking with the pain. ‘They say they sent a team to clear up the house once I’d signed for it and they can’t help it if someone’s broken in and mucked it up meanwhile.’
‘Can’t they give us another house, Mum?’ said Rochelle.
‘They say they’ve hardly got any now, they’ve all been sold off. It’s this stinking dump or one of them huge hostels full of refugees,’ said Mum. ‘They won’t offer me anything decent because I signed for this tenancy.’
‘Yes, well, you were mad to sign, weren’t you?’ said Martine relentlessly.
‘I know. OK? You’re right. Do you think I feel good about it?’ said Mum. ‘I feel bloody terrible.’ She collapsed onto the rolled-up carpet and started crying, her head in her hands. We stood round her in a ring, watching helplessly. Bruce stood in the doorway, holding his van keys.
‘Don’t upset yourself,’ he mumbled.
Mum cried harder.
‘You’ll make yourself ill,’ Bruce said, trying to sound firmer. ‘And you’ve got to get organized.’
It was clear Mum was past organization now.
‘Well, someone’s got to sort things out,’ said Bruce. He looked at Martine, because she’s the eldest.
‘Don’t look at me,’ she said furiously.
Bruce’s eyes swivelled to Jude. She glared at him and went to sit beside Mum on the carpet. She put her arm round her.
Bruce looked at Rochelle. She was in tears too.
‘This is a horrible horrible horrible house and I hate it. I want to go home,’ she wept.
I was the only one left. Bruce looked at me. He shook his head and sighed. He took a deep breath. ‘OK. Here’s what we’ll do,’ he said. ‘You two little girls, Rosanne and Dixie, try to get the house cleared up a bit. You two big girls help me unload the van. I can’t do too much. If I do my back in again there’ll be hell to pay.’
‘I’m not a little girl! I’m Rochelle, not Rosanne! I’m not cleaning! I did all the rotten cleaning back home. And this is disgusting. I’m not touching sick!’
‘OK, OK, I’ll do the sick in the sink,’ said Bruce, starting to roll his sleeves up. ‘Then we’ll have to get the van unloaded. I’ve got to get back. I’m very very late as it is. If you lot don’t co-operate I’ll just have to drive off with all your stuff still on board. I don’t want to, but you’re leaving me no option. You’re not being fair.’
‘No, we’re not,’ I said. ‘I’ll help, Uncle Bruce.’
‘I don’t think a little titch like you can hump furniture, sweetheart,’ said Bruce, but he nodded at me gratefully.
‘Little squirt,’ said Rochelle rudely. She felt in her shoulder bag, found her pink Marigolds and threw them at me. ‘Here you are then if you’re so eager to get cleaning. I’m not having some weirdo guy telling me what to do.’
Her aim wasn’t good. One of the gloves landed on Mum’s head, sticking to her long black hair like a giant water lily. Mum swatted it away wearily. She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and smeared mascara across her cheeks.
‘Oh bum. I must look a right sight. Quit showing off, Rochelle. Take no notice, Bruce, she’s always been a stroppy little cow. Now come on, girls, chop-chop, do like Bruce says.’ She smiled up at him, all tears and smudges. ‘Thank you, sweetheart, you’re a star. I knew you’d help us.’
Bruce sighed. He threw his van keys to Jude. ‘You make a start with the furniture then. You look like you’re the strong girl of the family.’
It was exactly the right thing to say to Jude. She jumped to it. Bruce thrust his fingers into the rubber gloves and strode resolutely to the kitchen.
We watched Jude opening the van doors and reaching in for the first of the boxes. She staggered a little as she hauled it to the pavement.
‘She’ll hurt herself. I’ll help her,’ said Mum, trying to get up.
‘Oh for God’s sake, you can’t shift huge boxes in your condition. I’ll have to do it,’ Martine said, and she stomped out to help Jude.
‘Well, I’m not doing anything,’ said Rochelle.
‘Yes, you are, darling. You’re going to ferret in the van for the carrier with the cleaning stuff because all them sinks and toilets are going to need a lot of bleach. I’m going to do that. You’re going to be chief clothes girl, getting all our gear unpacked out of all the boxes and bags.’
Rochelle huffed and puffed but did as she was told.
‘What can I do, Mum?’ I asked.
‘You can help me up for a start, Dixie. I’m stuck here like Little Miss Muffet on her blooming tuffet,’ said Mum.
I held her hands and pulled hard. Mum staggered to her feet. She straightened up slowly, rubbing her tummy.
‘Phew! I’ll be glad when he’s born. Three weeks to go! Still, I’m glad it’s all plain sailing this time. Not like when I had you, little darling. You came two months early and scared me silly.’
‘Does it hurt horribly when you have a baby?’
‘Well, it’s no picnic,’ said Mum.
‘Worse than being punched?’
‘It’s different.’ Mum reached out with her fingers and gently poked the corners of my mouth. ‘Hey! Where’s my smiley babe? Don’t worry so, I’ll be fine. Your little brother will pop
out no problem. Boys are meant to be much easier than girls.’ Mum rubbed her face. ‘Am I still all mascara smudges?’
‘A bit. Here.’ I licked my finger and rubbed hard. ‘It was scary when you cried like that, Mum.’
‘Oh tosh. I wasn’t really crying. I was just putting it on so old Bruce would stop fussing and fretting and make himself useful,’ said Mum, giving me a hug.
‘Oh yeah. I knew that really,’ I fibbed.
‘No, you didn’t! You’ll believe anything, my baby girl.’ Mum held onto me, rocking me. ‘I know I’m having my baby boy but you’re still my baby girl, Dixie.’
‘Come off it, Mum. I’m not a baby any more.’
‘Yes you are! You’ll be my baby when you’re a little old lady of eighty and I’m an ancient old bag of a hundred and goodness knows what. OK! Let’s get cracking. Maybe I can’t hump furniture but I can clean.’
‘I’ll clean too, Mum. Not the sick though.’
‘Well, old Bruce seems to be tackling that,’ said Mum, cocking her head and listening to running water in the kitchen. ‘I knew he’d turn up trumps.’
‘He’s got to get back though. Urgent.’
‘I bet I can twist him round my little finger. You wait and see, little Dix.’ Mum rubbed her tummy as if she was Aladdin and it was her magic lamp. ‘He’s a gentleman, our Bruce. He’s not going to abandon a pregnant lady.’
She suddenly doubled up, her face contorted.
‘Mum?’ I said. ‘Mum!’
Mum looked up and burst out laughing. ‘Fooled you! And I’ll fool Bruce too.’
‘Oh Mum, you are bad!’ I pretended to smack her.
Mum caught hold of me and gave me a big hug. ‘Bless your dad for finding him. He never lets me down.’
I gave Mum a big hug back.
‘You’re always there for me too, babe. You and all my girls. Diamond girls stick together through thick and thin. Even Martine!’ Mum got closer, so she was whispering in my ear. ‘She won’t go back, you’ll see. She’ll go off that dull boy Tony soon enough. She’ll meet some nice new boy. It’s plain as day in her charts.’ Mum glanced out of the window uncertainly. ‘Maybe not from round here. At her new school! She’ll settle down and sit her exams and surprise herself by doing really well. I’m sure she’s bright enough to go to college and make something of herself. I want all you girls to have proper careers. I don’t want you just being a mum like me and doing rubbish jobs like cleaning and bar work. I reckon Martine could get a job in the City – one of these business women in Armani suits earning pots of money.’
‘And Jude?’
We both had a giggle at the idea of Jude in a designer suit.
‘Something outdoorsy and adventurous for our Jude. She could maybe be a skiing instructress or run her own stables.’
Jude had never strapped on skis or sat on a horse in her life, but we could both see her doing just that.
‘And it’s obvious Rochelle has to be an actress. She’s got the looks and she’s certainly enough of a drama queen,’ said Mum.
‘What about me, Mum? What am I going to do?’
‘You’re my little dreamer. Maybe you’ll make up stories. Yeah, write books like those Harry Potters. You can keep us all in the lap of luxury, eh?’ Mum looked all the way round the room, and then shook her head. ‘We’ll get this place fixed up, Dixie. I know it’s a dump but we’ve always got our home sorted and looking lovely, and we’ll do it here too. It could be a lovely house, once it’s all clean and painted. It’s got nice big rooms so we’ll have more space. And we’ve got the garden! You wanted a garden, didn’t you, Dixie? Run out into the back garden, see what it’s like. Quick, before Rochelle sees you.’
I ran through to the kitchen. Bruce was labouring at the sink, his face screwed up.
‘Poor Uncle Bruce,’ I said.
‘Yeah, poor silly old fool Bruce,’ he said, but he didn’t stop scrubbing.
‘Mum says I’m to check out the back garden,’ I said. I scrabbled with the key in the back door.
‘Hang on, I’ll do it,’ said Bruce.
‘No, I can do it,’ I said, wrenching the key and scraping the skin off my fingers. I still couldn’t get the door open though I pulled and pulled.
‘There’s a bolt at the top, little ’un,’ said Bruce, peeling off one of his rubber gloves. He reached over me and tried to budge it. It was a struggle even for him.
‘Doesn’t look like the garden’s used much,’ he said, shoving the door hard. It opened. We saw outside. Bruce whistled. ‘Understatement of the century,’ he said.
It wasn’t a garden at all. It was a jungle. The grass came right up to my waist. Brambles grew everywhere like crazy hedges, turning the whole garden into a maze. I gazed at purple and blue and yellow plants.
‘Flowers!’ I said.
‘Weeds, darling,’ said Bruce.
‘I think they’re flowers,’ I said, wading through them.
‘Careful! Steer clear of them nettles. You’ll be in over your head if you don’t watch out. Come back indoors, Dixie,’ Bruce called.
‘Not yet! It’s lovely here,’ I said, thrusting my way through shrubs and ferns. There were great white flowers that really were way above my head, shading me like umbrellas.
‘You watch where you’re stepping,’ Bruce muttered, but he went back indoors.
I fumbled for Bluebell and helped her soar up into the air, flying round the umbrella flowers, sweeping round the brambles, skimming the long tangled grasses. I imagined a flock of parrots to keep her company. Monkeys climbed the trees, swinging from branch to branch. Lions stalked through the undergrowth but I snapped my fingers at them carelessly. They bowed their great heads and let me stroke their beautiful golden backs. The largest lion raised his nose, opened his mouth and roared right in my face, his hot breath scorching me. I didn’t flinch, though Bluebell fluttered away as fast as she could.
I trekked on fearlessly through entire continents until I came up against the Great Wall of China. It was a real brick wall, marking the end of our garden. I tried several running leaps at it to hitch myself up on top. I scraped all up and down my arms and dropped Bluebell in the grass. I tucked her down my T-shirt, and leaped at the wall again, getting the knack of it now. I hung on tight, heaving one leg up, then the other.
I was up there, sitting on the Great Wall of China itself. I peered up and down the gravelled alleyway, looking for Chinese people and rickshaws and chop suey restaurants.
‘This is your birthplace, Bluebell,’ I whispered down my neck.
The alleyway looked disappointingly ordinary and English. There was black creosote fencing the other side, and if I craned my neck like a meerkat I could see over a big gate into another back garden. It was very very different from my jungle garden. The grass was bright green and mowed into stripes. They looked as if they’d been drawn with a ruler. The beds of flowers were impossibly neat too, planted in a pattern, each plant so perfect I wondered if they might be plastic.
Down at the end of the garden there was a swing. It looked very fancy, with a white canopy and a padded seat. I wondered how high you could swing on it. I loved swinging. Jude used to take me to the rec back at Bletchworth, but then all the junkies started hanging out there and so we had to stop going.
I looked longingly at the swing. I could jump down off the wall, run across the alley, nip through the gate and jump on the swing. I pretended I was perched on that padded seat, rocking backwards and forwards.
Then a little girl walked down the garden, straight to the swing. I blinked, wondering if I was making her up. No, she was real, a very clean, tidy little girl of about six. She had the neatest plaits tied with pink polka-dot hair ribbons, and a pink dress to match. I saw her knickers when she climbed on the swing. They were snowy white with pink lace round the legs. She had white socks too and white sandals. I saw the rubber soles as she started swinging. Even they were spotless. It was like she lived on another planet altogether where dirt had been ban
ished.
I jumped down off my wall and ran across the alley. I went to the gate and stuck my chin over the top.
‘Hiya!’ I said.
She was so startled she nearly fell straight off the swing. She looked back towards her house anxiously. It didn’t look real either. It was a big black and white house with a red pointy roof and flowers growing up a trellis in a regular pattern, like wallpaper.
‘It’s all right! I’m not going to hurt you. What’s your name?’
She stopped swinging, her chin on her chest. ‘Mary,’ she said, in this tiny little voice.
‘I’m Dixie,’ I said. ‘And this is Bluebell.’
She raised her head a little.
‘Here she is,’ I said, holding Bluebell out on one finger over the gate.
She sucked in her breath. ‘A little bird!’ she whispered.
‘Yes, she’s my budgie. Want to stroke her?’
Mary nodded. She slid off the swing and came over to the gate. I could see she’d been crying. Her blue eyes were very watery and her little lashes were spiky with tears. She sniffed, wiped her eyes carefully and then held up her hand. She had remarkably clean hands with pearly fingernails, as if she was fresh out of the bath. I wished my own fingernails weren’t so grimy. I noticed my cardie cuffs were grey too. I turned them over to hide the worst of the dirt.
I dangled Bluebell over the fence. Mary could just about reach. She tickled the back of Bluebell’s head with one delicate little finger. Then she stopped, looking worried.
‘Is it … dead?’
‘What? No!’
‘It’s cold like it’s dead. My kitten’s dead now.’
‘Oh, how sad. Is that why you’re crying?’
‘No, it died weeks ago. It got run over. It was my fault. I was very bad.’
‘Why was it your fault?’
‘Mummy said I left the front door open.’
‘But you didn’t mean to.’
‘No, I loved my kitten.’
‘Did you have a funeral? I love funerals. I had this mouse once. It wasn’t really a pet mouse, but I caught it and kept it in a box. I tried to make it a special little mouse house and I fed it lots of cheese but it kept trying to eat the cardboard box instead. I should have let it go free but I really wanted a pet and so I kept it and then it died. I turned the house into a coffin and painted it black with a tiny portrait of the mouse on the top in a little oval with REST IN PEACE underneath. I put the mouse in one of my socks and then lined the coffin with Mum’s old silky petticoat and I had a proper funeral. My sister Jude came to it, though she said I was weird. She helped me dig a hole down the rec and we buried the mouse. I made a little cross out of lolly sticks. My other sisters teased me and said I was taking after my dad. He’s an embalmer, you see. They always tease me. You know what sisters are like.’