No, that’s me. You’re the baby with Dad. I drew it so I should know.
Well, I can’t help that. The baby with Mum is the biggest baby, you just look and see. And I was the biggest, we both know that. That’s baby Ruby. I’ll show you.
It doesn’t matter anyway. OK, you’re the baby with Mum.
Right. Well. Mum held you too, of course. She held me and then she held you and Dad held me and then
And then we grew up a bit and we could toddle around and we didn’t need to be held. Though we still had cuddles with Mum. We sat on her lap. Both of us together. I can remember.
You’re just remembering that photograph. Hey, let’s stick it in the accounts book.
It’s not just the photo. I can remember. She felt so soft and yet her arms could hold you so tight you felt safe. And there was her flowery smell, and her curly hair tickled. She tickled us too, remember? Round and round the garden and then she’d tickle us under our arms and we’d go all squirmy. Remember that, Ruby?
(She’s gone all quiet. She can’t stand remembering because it makes her so sad and she can’t ever stand being unhappy. She won’t ever cry. That’s one of the few ways people tell us apart. If one of us has gone all red and watery-eyed then it’s me.
I think I might cry a bit when I write this next part. I’ll go back to doing it like a story. And I’ll scribble it down ever so quickly.)
The twins started school, and Opal and Richard went to work and at the weekend they did fun things like going swimming and shopping and they had days at the seaside. All the normal nice family things. But then everything stopped being normal and nice. Opal got a bit sick. Then she had to go into hospital. She was all right for a bit after that. But then she got sick again. She couldn’t work any more. She lay on the sofa at home. Gran had to meet the twins from school. Richard stopped working and looked after Opal. But she couldn’t get better. She died. So they stopped being a family.
There. I’ve written it. Do you want to read what I put, Ruby? No, she doesn’t. It was three years ago. When we were seven. But we’re ten now and it’s all right again. We can’t ever be our old family but we’re a new family now. Gran lives with us and she’s not like a mother, but then no-one can ever be like a mother to us. NO-ONE. NO-ONE AT ALL. ESPECIALLY NOT STUPID FRIZZY DIZZY ROSE.
This is Rose.
No, THIS is Rose.
Yes, that’s Rose. Only she’s even worse than that. What does Dad see in her? He’s the only one that likes her. Gran doesn’t like her one little bit.
Gran’s face when Dad turned up with Rose that Sunday! We all just stared at her. And Dad came out with all this guff about how she’d helped him when his bag of books broke, and then surprise surprise her car wouldn’t start so he’d given her a lift and they’d popped into a pub for a quick drink on the way home and she was all set to have a sandwich for her lunch and Dad said he’d got a proper roast-beef-and-Yorkshire job cooking for him at home and she went Oooh it’s ages since I had a proper Sunday dinner like that so guess what, folks. He brought her back. To share our Sunday lunch.
‘There’s no problem, is there, Gran?’ Dad said.
‘No, of course not. Do come and sit down at the table, Rose. There’s plenty of food. I’m afraid the beef will be a bit overdone and I can’t take pride in my Yorkshire today. It was lovely and light and fluffy, but . . .’
‘But I waylaid your son-in-law and kept him down the pub and mucked up your meal,’ said Rose, and she actually laughed. ‘Sorry about that,’ she said, though she didn’t look the slightest bit sorry.
Gran had to smile back at her through gritted teeth like it was funny.
We didn’t smile though, did we, Garnet?
She couldn’t take the hint though. She chatted away to us, nattering on about telly programmes and pop records and stuff, as if she’d known us years and years. And she kept trying to remember which of us was which.
‘Now, you’re Garnet, right?’ she said to me. ‘And you’re Ruby,’ she said to Garnet.
‘Yes,’ we said. ‘Right.’
‘Wrong,’ said Dad, laughing uneasily. ‘That’s Ruby. And that’s Garnet. They’re a pair of jokers. Even Gran and I get confused at times.’
‘Speak for yourself,’ Gran said huffily. ‘I’m sorry the beef was so dry. Though it would have been just cooked through a treat an hour or so ago. Anyway. Apple pie and cream? Help me clear the plates, girls.’
We helped her clear and when we came back with the pudding plates I sat in Garnet’s chair and she sat in mine. Rose was none the wiser. She nattered away to me, calling me Garnet, and she jabbered stuff to Garnet, calling her Ruby.
‘Yes, I’m beginning to be able to tell you apart,’ she said. ‘You’re Ruby. And you’re Garnet. Yes. Right.’
‘Well. Not quite right,’ said Dad. He came out with this false ho-ho-ho as if it was a great joke. ‘Stop teasing poor Rose, twins. I’m afraid they’ve swopped seats. They’re always doing it. I’d just call each girl “Twin” and be done with it, Rose.’
‘Oh, I think that’s awful,’ said Rose. ‘I couldn’t stand that if I were a twin.’
Well, certainly twin Roses would be AWFUL.
‘You’re two separate people who just happen to be sisters, aren’t you, Garnet and Ruby. Or Ruby and Garnet. Whichever. I’ve got muddled.’
‘We like being called Twin,’ I told her.
‘That’s what they call us at school,’ said Garnet.
‘We are twins . . .’ I said.
‘So we like . . .’ said Garnet.
‘Being called . . .’ I said.
‘Twins,’ we said simultaneously.
Rose raised one eyebrow and gave a little nod.
‘OK OK,’ she said. ‘Got it.’
She stopped trying to be so matey with us then. She tried complimenting Gran on her apple pie but Gran stayed as dried up as the dinner and barely said a word. So Dad did all the talking, on and on, saying all this silly stuff and pulling faces and telling stupid stories.
He didn’t sound like Dad at all.
It was as if he’d swopped with a new twin dad.
He didn’t go back to being our dad even when we’d got rid of Rose at last.
‘Well, what did you think of her?’ he asked eagerly.
I looked at Garnet. She looked at me. I raised one eyebrow. She raised one too. Then we both turned sideways and pretended to be sick.
‘All right, all right. You’ve done enough clowning around for one day,’ Dad said crossly.
‘Yes, don’t be so rude, Ruby and Garnet,’ said Gran – but she didn’t sound a bit cross.
‘Did you like Rose, Gran?’ Dad asked.
‘Well. She seems nice enough. I suppose. A bit . . . pushy, inviting herself to lunch like that.’
‘No, I invited her,’ said Dad. ‘I didn’t think you’d make such a big deal about it, actually. You’ve always said you wished I’d socialize a bit more, bring a few friends home, not stay so wrapped up in the past.’
‘Yes, dear. And I mean that. I’m only too pleased that you want to bring people back. Though if you could have just phoned to give me a bit of warning . . . And you do want to go a bit carefully with that type of woman.’
‘What do you mean, type?’ said Dad, really angry now.
‘Now, Richard, don’t get in such a silly state,’ said Gran, as if he was our age. ‘It’s just that she seems a bit eager. She’s never set eyes on you before today and yet she’s all over you, even trying to act like one of the family.’
‘I’ve known Rose for months, if you must know,’ said Dad. ‘She’s got her own bric-a-brac stall in the arcade – we’re forever bumping into each other at boot fairs. I’ve always wanted to get to know her better, she’s so bubbly and warm and friendly. I don’t know how you can talk about her like that – she’s a lovely girl.’
‘Girl!’ said Gran. ‘She’ll never see thirty again.’
‘Well, neither will I,’ Dad shouted. ‘And it?
??s about time I started making the most of my life, OK?’
He stormed off out of the house, slamming the door. There was a horrible silence after he’d left. Garnet got hold of my hand and squeezed it tight. She looked like she was going to cry. Gran looked like she was going to cry too.
We were all shocked by the row. We don’t ever have rows in our family.
It’s all that Rose’s fault.
Yes, it’s all Rose’s fault. She started all the changes. She comes every Sunday now. And in the week sometimes. And Dad goes out with her in the evenings and when they come back in the car, they KISS.
THREE
I HATE CHANGES. I want every day to be the same. I’ve always been like it, even before Mum died.
I couldn’t stand our first day at school.
Everybody stared at us because we were different. And the whole day was different. We couldn’t play our own games and talk in our own private language. It felt like we couldn’t even be twins, because the teacher sat me on one side of the classroom and Ruby on the other. She said it was so she could tell us apart.
I felt as if she’d somehow torn us apart. I didn’t feel a whole person at all. I felt like a half, as if an arm and a leg and most of my head were the other side of the room stuck to Ruby. I didn’t know how to think without her.
Well, naturally. I’m the oldest. I’m the DOMINANT twin. That’s what they call the one that’s born first. That’s me. I’m the Big Cheese. You’re just the Little Crumb.
You didn’t like us being separated either, Ruby. You didn’t cry
You did.
but you were ever so naughty and so we got sent to the headteacher and she said, ‘Why are you so unhappy, Garnet? Why are you so naughty, Ruby?’ and we said, ‘We want to sit together.’ And she said, ‘Is that all? Simple!’
And it was simple. We sat together. I didn’t cry any more. And Ruby wasn’t naughty. Well, she was, but not so much.
But it still took me ages and ages to get used to school. But now it’s OK. Everyone’s so used to us they don’t stare. We’re just The Twins. That’s the way we want it. We sit together in every lesson. We’re always partners. We sit next to each other at lunch.
We even go to the loo together.
We’re good at lessons. We sometimes come top, especially when we have to write stories or do a project.
But we like Drama best. We’re absolutely fabulous at Drama. Well. I am. Garnet goes all red and gets her words mixed up.
Don’t start, Ruby.
Well, you do. Only you wouldn’t if you’d stop being so shy. I don’t know why you’re so shy. I never feel shy.
Look, I just want to write about
You’ve been writing for ages and ages and you keep waffling on about us back in the Infants and who’s bothered about baby stuff like that? Write about what’s happening now. All the horrible bit.
Well, give me the pen.
Say please then. Hey! Get off!
‘Are you two girls having a fight?’
That’s Gran. She’s seen us snatching the pen from each other.
‘You can share nicely if you try. Now you’re going to have to remember all I’ve taught you when you go. She’s not the type to bother with good manners.’
‘Oh, Gran. I don’t want to go!’ I said, and I flung myself on to her lap.
‘Watch my hip! And my knee! Ruby, you great lump, get off of me,’ said Gran – but she cuddled me close all the same.
‘Can I come and join in the cuddle too?’ I asked.
I sat on the arm of the chair so I didn’t hurt Gran’s other hip and knee, but she reached out and pulled me properly on to her lap.
We clung tight. I started crying.
‘Stop it, Garnet,’ said Ruby, and she pinched me hard. Her face was all screwed up. She was scared I’d make her start crying, even though she never cries. Gran’s eyes were all watery too.
‘Dear oh dear,’ she said, sniffling. She patted us with her poor hands, the fingers all slipping sideways with arthritis. She fumbled up the sleeve of her cardi for her hankie and mopped my face and hers, and then pretended to blow Ruby’s nose.
‘We’d better turn off the waterworks. I don’t want a puddle in my chair,’ said Gran.
‘Oh Gran, please please please come with us,’ Ruby begged.
‘Now don’t you start, young Ruby. You know it’s all settled and decided.’
‘But we’ll miss you so, Gran!’ I said, nuzzling into her warm woollen chest.
‘And I’ll miss both of you, my girls. But you can come and stay with me on visits – you can sleep either end of the sofa and bring your sleeping bags – and I’ll maybe come to this new place for Christmas.’
‘Not maybe. You’ve GOT to come.’
‘We’ll see. Of course, there’s probably no point. She doesn’t have a clue about cooking. She probably won’t even bother to have a proper turkey.’
‘So why can’t we all come to you for Christmas, Gran, and then we can have Christmas dinner the way you do it, with cranberry sauce and little chipolatas and chestnut stuffing, yummy yummy,’ said Ruby.
‘That oven in my new flat is so small it would be hard put to cook a chicken in it,’ said Gran. ‘Sorry, pet. No more Christmas dinners.’
‘No more roast potatoes with special crispy bits and Christmas pud with little silver charms and traffic-light jelly, red and yellow and green,’ Ruby wailed.
‘I think you’re going to miss my cooking more than you’ll miss me,’ said Gran, shaking her head. ‘Come on now, you’re both squashing me something chronic. You’d better get back to your writing. Is it something for school?’
There’s no point doing anything for school. Because we won’t be going there much longer. We’ve got to go to a new school. In a new place. In a new life. And we’re going to hate it.
It’s all her fault. We hate her. WE HATE HER.
Yes. We hate her. It all started when Dad met Rose. She kept coming round upsetting us. Barging in. Changing things.
She changed Dad. It isn’t just the way he acts, all loopy and lovey-dovey, yuck yuck yuck. She’s changed his clothes. He always used to wear just ordinary Dad clothes. Jumpers. Trousers. Suits and white shirts on weekdays, with stripy ties. She started with the ties. She bought him this bright red flowery number.
Then it was Marilyn Monroe. And Mickey Mouse. Dad looked a bit of a cartoon himself in all these daft ties. She didn’t stop there. Oh no.
Would you believe, Donald Duck underpants!
At least they were hidden under his trousers. She started on his shirts next. Green stripes. Red check. Blue polka dot.
She said they brightened up his dull old suit.
She was worse with his weekend clothes. She made him give his tracksuit and his comfy old cords to Oxfam. She said they were old man’s clothes. She’s turned Dad into a new man. A new stupid trendy twit of a dad in black jeans and denim jackets and lumberjack shirts.
She even calls him a new name. Rick. It’s Rick this, Rick that. Sometimes it’s even Ricky. It doesn’t half make you feel Sicky.
Gran can’t bear it either.
‘His name’s Richard,’ she hissed one day. ‘We’ve always called him Richard. No-one ever calls him Ricky or Rick.’
She said it in the sort of voice that makes Garnet squirm. But Rose isn’t the squirmy sort. She just smiled.
‘I call him Rick,’ she said.
Gran scowled and sucked her teeth.
‘Oh dear,’ said Rose sympathetically. ‘Is the pain really bad today?’
Rose is the Pain.
But Gran is in pain too. Her arthritis has got horrid. Sometimes she can’t even get out of bed and Ruby and I have to help her. And it takes her ages and ages to get down the stairs with her hip. And up the stairs to the loo. And when she’s in her chair she gets stuck and we have to heave, Ruby one side, me the other.
How is she going to manage without us helping her?
She’s moving to shelter
ed housing. We thought that meant she was being housed in a bus shelter.
It’s not as bad as that. It’s a little flat on the ground floor and she’s going to have a Home Help and an Alarm Button.
I feel as if I have an Alarm Button inside me and it’s going off all the time.
We’re moving too. Garnet and me. And Dad. And Her. Dad lost his job. It’s called Being Made Redundant. Dad said he didn’t care. He’d always hated that boring old office. But he looked a bit shocked all the same.
‘So how are you going to manage without your boring old salary?’ said Gran, sniffing. ‘Oh, Richard, you’re such a fool. How could you spoil all your chances like this? And you’ve got the twins to think of, too.’
‘It wasn’t my fault,’ he said.
‘You’ve never shown the right attitude. And since you’ve taken up with that Rose, you’ve turned into . . . into a hippy.’
‘Oh, for goodness sake—’
‘Those silly ties and shirts were the last straw. Of course they got rid of you. So what are you going to do now? Have you looked at the Jobs Vacant in the papers?’
‘I don’t want that sort of job any more,’ said Dad. ‘I’ve been thinking. They’re giving me quite a bit of cash as my redundancy pay. It’s my chance for a whole new start. We could sell up here, get a little shop in the country somewhere. A bookshop. You’ve always been on and on at me to sell some of my books!’
‘You’re talking nonsense,’ said Gran. ‘Well, count me out.’
Count us out too, Dad! Garnet and me. We don’t want to be part of any of this.
We don’t want to move to a silly old shop in the country! We don’t want to leave Gran. We don’t want to leave all our friends. We don’t want to leave our school. We don’t want to leave our old lives. We don’t want to live with you. Not if it means we’ve got to live with her. Because she’s coming too. Rose.
We wish she’d get greenfly and mildew and wilt.
FOUR
IF OUR WRITING’S a bit shaky, it’s because we’re doing this account in the van.