Dear Nobody by Berlie Doherty Page B

away on her computer keyboard at the bank. Dad would be filing books away, humming a jazz tune to himself in his quiet library. Grandad would be making himself a cup of tea, stirring and stirring the leaves in his teapot the way he does, peering down into its steam. Ruthlyn would be in Maths, where I should be. And Chris. What were you doing then, Chris, while my test tube was concocting its brew? Were you thinking about me?
    And when I took the cocktail swizzle stick out it wasn’t pink at the end. It was white. I read the instructions again. If the end is pink, you are pregnant. If it is white, you are not pregnant. I’m not pregnant. You don’t exist.
    You are nobody.
    Dear Nobody,
    Later.
    After I’d done that pregnancy test I went to the music centre to work, just as if it was an ordinary day. Well, it was, after all. I had to do some work on a Bach mass. I love that music. I love all kinds of way-out music and I suppose Bach is way-out for people of my age to like, too. It just bursts in my head, all the time, when I’ve been working on it. I looked through some of the music scores and found myself reading composers’ names out loud. I’d never realized before how beautiful they sound. Stravinsky. Vivaldi. Delius. No wonder they write glorious music when they’ve got names like that. How can I ever hope to be a composer with a name like Garton? I looked in the Gs in the index to see if there was a Garton there and I found Gluck. Fancy having a name like Gluck. It sounds more like something going down the plughole. Gluck Gluck Gluck, I said aloud, and all the music students looked up at me and frowned.
    I felt great.
    I ran home with my head all full of music and had a fight with Robbie at teatime because he reckoned he was always going to have my tea. But I’d decided I was hungry again. Mum just sat back in her chair in the kitchen and let us get on with it. She looked really tired. I’ve been so obsessed with myself lately that I haven’t taken any notice of anyone else. I wonder what her private thoughts are, if she has sensed what I’ve been going through. How hard it would have been to tell her. I just wouldn’t have known where to start. I wish I could talk to her. I haven’t been able to since I was a little girl, I don’t know why. I don’t think she loves me as much now that I’m grown-up. Sometimes I think she’d like me to be a little girl again, to make pretty clothes for and cuddle at bedtime. She doesn’t really know me any more.
    As soon as I could I went to Chris’s house. I couldn’twait to see him. I wanted to tell him it was all right, and that the wheels of the world had started turning again. He wasn’t in, after all, but I’d loved the walk there down all the fresh rainy streets.
    â€˜You all right?’ said Chris’s father. ‘You’re looking pasty.’
    â€˜I’m fine. Tell Chris I’m fine.’
    â€˜Come on in and wait for a bit,’ he said. ‘He mightn’t be long. He’s playing on a climbing frame or something.’
    I really like Chris’s dad. I can never tell whether he’s pulling my leg or not, some of the things he says.
    â€˜I was just going to switch off the kiln. Want to have a look down the grotto?’
    I followed him down the narrow cellar steps that led to his pottery room. The shelves were lined with cups and bowls and vases waiting to be glazed, and there were stacks of ice-cream cartons with interesting words on the labels. Grog and Dolomite, Wood-ash. Ochre. I let the names roll in my head. It was hot and stuffy down there. He switched off his kiln, and the low buzzing sound that I’d been aware of stopped.
    â€˜Can I see in the kiln?’ I asked.
    â€˜Much too hot,’ he told me. ‘I’ll have to leave it a day before I open that door. Have a look at these. I took them out the other day.’ He slid a tray of