Uncle Roger.’
‘I know. Poor Aunt Agnes too. I think she gets lonely.’
‘Poor Aunt Agnes. How’s Mum?’
‘Well, you know she’s on holiday.’
‘How’s Dad?’
‘He’s on holiday too. Aren’t they lucky? They’re in France.’
‘In France, that’s right. How’s Granny Norfolk?’
Our mother’s mother, Granny, lives in Norfolk, hence the name. I don’t know how she is, I haven’t spoken to her in months. ‘Look, you’ve got your own music system,’ I tell her, trying to stop the tirade of questions about the Fletcher family.
I can hear my voice, but it’s not me. I can’t seem to stop talking to her as if she were ten years old.
‘Anyway, you’ll meet Sam soon,’ I say.
Sam. I still feel nervous about him coming home. When I tried to call him earlier, his secretary said he was either ‘on the other line’ or ‘in a meeting’. He has her well trained. ‘He’s really looking forward to meeting you. You’ll be good, won’t you?’ I can’t help adding. ‘No dramas, right. We’re going to have a really grand two weeks, aren’t we?’
‘No dramas,’ she repeats.
‘Good. Come down when you’re ready.’
*
The chips are frying and I’m on to my second vodka. These last few days I’ve been counting down the minutes until I can have my first drink in the evening. Let’s forget the cup of tea and go straight to the hard stuff. First hurdle is over. Bells is here, we are getting on fine, I think. The second major hurdle is Bells meeting Sam.
Stevie Wonder starts to blast out of Bells’s bedroom. I run upstairs and open the door. Bells is on the bed, pinning up a poster of David Beckham, his diamond earrings sparkling.
The lovely white room is now covered in football badges and stickers with a Beatles poster stuck to the door, SEX, DRUGS AND ROCK ’N’ ROLL written in big black letters at the bottom. It reminds me of Bells’s bedroom in our parents’ home. She had the master bedroom with the sink that I was envious of, and wallpaper with flowery borders. Bells didn’t like the wallpaper, though, so she drew pictures of animals and pinned up posters of her favourite pop singers, Stevie Wonder, David Bowie and the Beatles. I remember she had a picture of Bob Marley on the wall too, smoking a joint. Mum did not mind her ruining the wallpaper. She wasn’t strict in that sense. She let us get on with it half the time.
The entire floor is covered with clothes, joined by a tattered poetry book, a sketchpad, a small wooden case of oil paints, a collection of CDs and a photograph album. I take a deep breath and bend down to pick the mess off the floor. ‘Bells!’ I shout. ‘Turn it down! It’s so loud in here.’ I climb on to the bed. ‘What are you sticking the posters down with? You’re not putting pins in the walls, are you?’ Oh, God, she is. ‘Bells, don’t put pins in the walls!’
‘Why?’
‘It leaves a hole.’
She continues to push a pin into the white paint.
‘Bells, hey! Don’t do that. What did I just say?’
‘We do in Wales. Mum lets me too.’
I look down at the bedspread. ‘I don’t care what you do in Wales, you’re staying with Sam and me now.’
‘Katie bossy,’ she says.
I shrug. ‘Bells, can you take your boots off? Sam likes you to take your shoes off when you come into the house.’ She is still wearing these peculiar little pixie boots.
‘Why?’ she asks, and then starts to use the bed as a trampoline, while telling me that in Wales they have one in the garden and Ted can jump the highest, apparently.
‘What’s going on?’ I hear from behind. I spin round on the bed and almost lose my balance.
‘Hello,’ Bells says, extending her small hand. ‘You handsome.’
Sam looks at her strangely. ‘What did she say?’ He looks around. ‘This room’s a bloody pigsty.’
When Bells makes pig-like noises I want to disappear under the floorboards.
‘Is this your …’ He can hardly get the words out.
‘This is my
‘I know. Poor Aunt Agnes too. I think she gets lonely.’
‘Poor Aunt Agnes. How’s Mum?’
‘Well, you know she’s on holiday.’
‘How’s Dad?’
‘He’s on holiday too. Aren’t they lucky? They’re in France.’
‘In France, that’s right. How’s Granny Norfolk?’
Our mother’s mother, Granny, lives in Norfolk, hence the name. I don’t know how she is, I haven’t spoken to her in months. ‘Look, you’ve got your own music system,’ I tell her, trying to stop the tirade of questions about the Fletcher family.
I can hear my voice, but it’s not me. I can’t seem to stop talking to her as if she were ten years old.
‘Anyway, you’ll meet Sam soon,’ I say.
Sam. I still feel nervous about him coming home. When I tried to call him earlier, his secretary said he was either ‘on the other line’ or ‘in a meeting’. He has her well trained. ‘He’s really looking forward to meeting you. You’ll be good, won’t you?’ I can’t help adding. ‘No dramas, right. We’re going to have a really grand two weeks, aren’t we?’
‘No dramas,’ she repeats.
‘Good. Come down when you’re ready.’
*
The chips are frying and I’m on to my second vodka. These last few days I’ve been counting down the minutes until I can have my first drink in the evening. Let’s forget the cup of tea and go straight to the hard stuff. First hurdle is over. Bells is here, we are getting on fine, I think. The second major hurdle is Bells meeting Sam.
Stevie Wonder starts to blast out of Bells’s bedroom. I run upstairs and open the door. Bells is on the bed, pinning up a poster of David Beckham, his diamond earrings sparkling.
The lovely white room is now covered in football badges and stickers with a Beatles poster stuck to the door, SEX, DRUGS AND ROCK ’N’ ROLL written in big black letters at the bottom. It reminds me of Bells’s bedroom in our parents’ home. She had the master bedroom with the sink that I was envious of, and wallpaper with flowery borders. Bells didn’t like the wallpaper, though, so she drew pictures of animals and pinned up posters of her favourite pop singers, Stevie Wonder, David Bowie and the Beatles. I remember she had a picture of Bob Marley on the wall too, smoking a joint. Mum did not mind her ruining the wallpaper. She wasn’t strict in that sense. She let us get on with it half the time.
The entire floor is covered with clothes, joined by a tattered poetry book, a sketchpad, a small wooden case of oil paints, a collection of CDs and a photograph album. I take a deep breath and bend down to pick the mess off the floor. ‘Bells!’ I shout. ‘Turn it down! It’s so loud in here.’ I climb on to the bed. ‘What are you sticking the posters down with? You’re not putting pins in the walls, are you?’ Oh, God, she is. ‘Bells, don’t put pins in the walls!’
‘Why?’
‘It leaves a hole.’
She continues to push a pin into the white paint.
‘Bells, hey! Don’t do that. What did I just say?’
‘We do in Wales. Mum lets me too.’
I look down at the bedspread. ‘I don’t care what you do in Wales, you’re staying with Sam and me now.’
‘Katie bossy,’ she says.
I shrug. ‘Bells, can you take your boots off? Sam likes you to take your shoes off when you come into the house.’ She is still wearing these peculiar little pixie boots.
‘Why?’ she asks, and then starts to use the bed as a trampoline, while telling me that in Wales they have one in the garden and Ted can jump the highest, apparently.
‘What’s going on?’ I hear from behind. I spin round on the bed and almost lose my balance.
‘Hello,’ Bells says, extending her small hand. ‘You handsome.’
Sam looks at her strangely. ‘What did she say?’ He looks around. ‘This room’s a bloody pigsty.’
When Bells makes pig-like noises I want to disappear under the floorboards.
‘Is this your …’ He can hardly get the words out.
‘This is my
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