sister Isabel. Bells.’
‘Hello, you Sam?’ she says again, still offering her small pale hand.
He shakes it, limply. ‘This is Bells?’ He looks around the room again, despair written over his face.
I nod. ‘Sam, I’ll tidy the room later, don’t worry.’
He stares at the posters. ‘She hasn’t put drawing pins in the wall? Tell me she hasn’t, Katie?’
I jump off the bed, rush towards him. ‘I’m sorry, I’ll deal with it, honey, I promise.’
Sam puts his head into his hands.
‘What’s that burning smell?’ he shouts above the noise, then marches over to the stereo and turns off the music, followed by the television. ‘Jesus Christ, even my grandfather doesn’t need the snooker on so loudly.’
‘No like Sam,’ Bells says.
‘Bells! Don’t be rude.’ Thankfully I don’t think he understood what she said. He’s still sniffing the air with a look of disgust. ‘The chips,’ I yelp, and dart out of the room.
‘Fucking hell, can today get
any
worse?’ I hear Sam cursing as he runs after me.
*
It’s been a long day when finally I make my way upstairs to bed. The chips burned and Sam hated the mushy peas. ‘Who eats mushy peas anyway?’ he protested.
I looked in Bells’s direction and he shrugged. He attempted to ask her a few questions about the train journey. ‘I haven’t got a clue what she just said,’ he kept on repeating when Bells was staring at him for a response. She started to hit the kitchen table with her fork in frustration, repeating her questions in vain.
‘If you don’t understand Bells, just pretend you do,’ I tried to persuade him after supper.
I know Sam is still angry with me for not telling him about Bells and I don’t blame him. What was I thinking? He has gone out for a few drinks with Maguire.
I turn off the light and close my eyes. He couldn’t get out of the house quick enough.
*
I scream when I see a small figure silhouetted at the end of my bed.
‘Bells, what are you doing?’ I sit up abruptly. ‘Go back to bed.’ When I get a glazed response, I jump up and shake her awake.
I can hear Mum coming upstairs and then pacing down our creaky corridor in her floaty nightdress and bed-jacket. ‘You shouldn’t wake her up,’ she scolds me, ‘if it happens again take her back to her bedroom. Bells darling, do you want to go to the loo before you go back to bed?’
‘That’s right,’ she says, lifting up her white cotton nightie and crouching on the floor.
‘NO!’ Mum and I cry together. Mum starts to laugh, and so do I. And then Bells copies us, doing her mad-lady-locked-up-in-the-attic
Jane Eyre
laugh.
*
I feel disorientated as I turn on the light and look at my watch. It’s only midnight. I shiver. I can hear both Mum and Bells now, as if it were yesterday.
The house is deathly quiet. When we were children, Bells used to sleepwalk almost every night. Mum had to put thick white bars over her bedroom window. I step out of bed and walk down the corridor, towards Bells’s room. I find myself opening the door, the light glaring out at me. Mum had told me Bells still hates sleeping in the dark and that I must keep a small light on in the corner of her bedroom.
I can hear her deep breathing as she turns over in bed. She’s so tiny, just under five feet tall. She looks young for her age because of her height. She could also be mistaken for a boy from behind because of her short auburn hair. Dad says he never wants Bells to grow her hair. ‘You must never hide behind your hair,’ he told her when she started to be a self-conscious teenager who wanted to look like everyone else. ‘You look the world in the eye,’ he said.
I kneel down by her bed and watch as she sleeps, absorbing each line and movement of her face. There is the familiar scar over her upper lip that crosses like two letter Cs. She always wears three small stud earrings in her left ear; one of them is a green stone surrounded by gold.
Her hand pokes out from the
‘Hello, you Sam?’ she says again, still offering her small pale hand.
He shakes it, limply. ‘This is Bells?’ He looks around the room again, despair written over his face.
I nod. ‘Sam, I’ll tidy the room later, don’t worry.’
He stares at the posters. ‘She hasn’t put drawing pins in the wall? Tell me she hasn’t, Katie?’
I jump off the bed, rush towards him. ‘I’m sorry, I’ll deal with it, honey, I promise.’
Sam puts his head into his hands.
‘What’s that burning smell?’ he shouts above the noise, then marches over to the stereo and turns off the music, followed by the television. ‘Jesus Christ, even my grandfather doesn’t need the snooker on so loudly.’
‘No like Sam,’ Bells says.
‘Bells! Don’t be rude.’ Thankfully I don’t think he understood what she said. He’s still sniffing the air with a look of disgust. ‘The chips,’ I yelp, and dart out of the room.
‘Fucking hell, can today get
any
worse?’ I hear Sam cursing as he runs after me.
*
It’s been a long day when finally I make my way upstairs to bed. The chips burned and Sam hated the mushy peas. ‘Who eats mushy peas anyway?’ he protested.
I looked in Bells’s direction and he shrugged. He attempted to ask her a few questions about the train journey. ‘I haven’t got a clue what she just said,’ he kept on repeating when Bells was staring at him for a response. She started to hit the kitchen table with her fork in frustration, repeating her questions in vain.
‘If you don’t understand Bells, just pretend you do,’ I tried to persuade him after supper.
I know Sam is still angry with me for not telling him about Bells and I don’t blame him. What was I thinking? He has gone out for a few drinks with Maguire.
I turn off the light and close my eyes. He couldn’t get out of the house quick enough.
*
I scream when I see a small figure silhouetted at the end of my bed.
‘Bells, what are you doing?’ I sit up abruptly. ‘Go back to bed.’ When I get a glazed response, I jump up and shake her awake.
I can hear Mum coming upstairs and then pacing down our creaky corridor in her floaty nightdress and bed-jacket. ‘You shouldn’t wake her up,’ she scolds me, ‘if it happens again take her back to her bedroom. Bells darling, do you want to go to the loo before you go back to bed?’
‘That’s right,’ she says, lifting up her white cotton nightie and crouching on the floor.
‘NO!’ Mum and I cry together. Mum starts to laugh, and so do I. And then Bells copies us, doing her mad-lady-locked-up-in-the-attic
Jane Eyre
laugh.
*
I feel disorientated as I turn on the light and look at my watch. It’s only midnight. I shiver. I can hear both Mum and Bells now, as if it were yesterday.
The house is deathly quiet. When we were children, Bells used to sleepwalk almost every night. Mum had to put thick white bars over her bedroom window. I step out of bed and walk down the corridor, towards Bells’s room. I find myself opening the door, the light glaring out at me. Mum had told me Bells still hates sleeping in the dark and that I must keep a small light on in the corner of her bedroom.
I can hear her deep breathing as she turns over in bed. She’s so tiny, just under five feet tall. She looks young for her age because of her height. She could also be mistaken for a boy from behind because of her short auburn hair. Dad says he never wants Bells to grow her hair. ‘You must never hide behind your hair,’ he told her when she started to be a self-conscious teenager who wanted to look like everyone else. ‘You look the world in the eye,’ he said.
I kneel down by her bed and watch as she sleeps, absorbing each line and movement of her face. There is the familiar scar over her upper lip that crosses like two letter Cs. She always wears three small stud earrings in her left ear; one of them is a green stone surrounded by gold.
Her hand pokes out from the
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