Alice in Time Page 10

  I skid up the front path and realise that I haven’t got my front door key on me. I’ll have to see if the back door’s open. I go round the side of the house but for some reason the side gate’s closed and when I try to open it, I find it’s locked. We never shut that gate and I didn’t even know Mum had a key for it. I go back to the front door and ring the bell. If Mum has a go at me for forgetting my key I’ll just shout at her for locking the side gate. Why is she taking so long to come to the door? I can see her through the stained glass, making her way down the hall. God! Why is she so slow?

  I’m bouncing up and down with impatience. Finally, she’s at the door. Now she’s fiddling with the safety chain! We never use that. God, hurry up! The door opens and I’m about to shout at her for being so slow, but the words get sucked back in by my gasp. Because, instead of Mum standing there, it‘s Miss Maybrooke. The Miss Maybrooke that was at death’s door only last night – the Miss Maybrooke who called for Mum to dash to her bedside – thereby ruining my date with Seth and, in fact, my life.

  Is this some sort of elaborate joke that Mum has cooked up? Is she trying to get her own back because I scared her last night by going out and not telling her where I was? No, that’s crazy. Miss Maybrooke was ill. She was bedridden. I saw her myself at the nursing home. But this is definitely her standing at the door, and although she’s old and bent she isn’t dead. When Mum got home last night she was upset because Miss Maybrooke had died. She’d never joke about something like that.

  ‘Can I help you, dear?’

  I realise I’m doing my guppy impression again – the one I did when Luke asked me out – the one where I stand there with my mouth opening and closing.

  ‘You’re a bit young to be working for social services. They said they’d send someone round to help me with the housework. I was expecting someone a bit older. You’re not from social services, surely?’

  ‘No,’ I say and then, in a moment of inspiration, ‘I’m from the Girl Guides . . . no, the Brownies.’ Am I seven or fourteen? I don’t care – I just want to get inside the house to see if Mum and Rory are in there. ‘It’s “Bob a Job” week. Do you have any jobs you’d like me to do?’

  Miss Maybrooke looks doubtful.

  ‘Well, I don’t know, dear. You look a bit small.’

  That’s right, rub it in, I think.

  ‘Maybe I can find something for you to do. You’d better come in so I can shut the door and keep the cold out.’ I’m tempted to tell her that it’s a hot, sunny day beyond the hedge and that she should chop it down – but what’s the point? She’s only a hallucination.

  She moves aside and I step indoors. The first thing that I notice is the smell. It smells of lavender and beeswax with an undertone of old lady. Also, there’s lino on the hall floor. It’s all grubby and cracked. The air is cold and damp. If I thought it was bad when I lived here, this is much worse.

  By now we’ve reached the kitchen, but instead of the bright new one my mum had fitted, it’s really old-fashioned and it smells of sour milk. Now I know it’s not a joke.

  Miss Maybrooke is rummaging under the sink and pulls out a bag of potatoes. She spreads some newspaper on the table and hands me a potato peeler.

  ‘I wonder if you could do these for me. I have a bit of trouble with them these days, with my hands like this.’ She waves them at me and I see that they’re all scrunched up – the fingers twisted and bent. ‘Arthritis,’ she says. ‘It’s a terrible thing, getting old.’

  You ought to try getting younger, I think. It’s not exactly a bundle of laughs. I’m having trouble keeping hold of the potato because my hands aren’t big enough.

  ‘I think I’ve got some orange squash somewhere.’ She’s rummaging in the cupboard again and brings out a sticky-looking bottle containing something dangerously orange. She pours some into a glass and gives it to me. I take a tentative sip and try not to spit it back out all over the potatoes. Should I tell her that it’s supposed to have water added to it? Now she’s found me some carrots and as I peel them, I wonder about discussing my problem with her. But what exactly could I say? ‘I had an accident and I’m in a coma and not really here,’ sounds like the ramblings of a deranged person. She’s likely to think that it’s just some game I’m playing.

  It’s then that I notice the newspaper. I push aside the peelings and look for the date.

  ‘Is this today’s paper?’ I ask as innocently as possible, trying to keep the excitement out of my voice.

  ‘No, dear, that’s yesterday’s. I haven’t read today’s yet.’

  And there it is, at the top – 2nd June, which is right – but seven years ago!

  Miss Maybrooke is getting a pound coin out of her purse.

  ‘Thank you, dear, that’s very helpful,’ she says, handing it to me. ‘You’d better run off home. Where do you live? Is it far?’ That is a very good question. If I don’t live here – which I obviously don’t – then where do I live? Oh my God! Of course!

  ‘I live at twenty-five Cavendish Street,’ I tell her, which is where the seven-year-old me lived. I have to get back there. This is truly awesome – I’m going HOME.

  Chapter Two

  I run all the way to Cavendish Street. I could get a bus some of the way, with the pound I’ve just earned, but I’m so excited I feel like running. I slow down when I get a couple of streets from home, though. What if I’m wrong? What if Mum isn’t at the house in Cavendish Street?

  I stop when I get there and stand looking at it. It’s just an ordinary house – not old, like Miss Maybrooke’s house in George Street. This house has an open front garden, a garage and a red front door. It looks like home. I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve wished that I still lived here with Mum and Dad and no Rory.

  Right, here goes. I ring the front door bell and when the door opens, there’s my mum. She looks perfectly ‘mum-like’, only prettier and happier and a lot taller. No – I forgot; it’s me that’s a lot shorter. The relief at seeing her is too much and I burst into tears.

  ‘Alice, sweetheart, whatever’s the matter?’

  She pulls me to her and gives me a huge hug. My first reaction is to pull away. I never hug my mum – I leave that sort of thing to Rory. But somehow it feels right. When I put my arms round her, though, there’s a big lump in the way.

  ‘Oops, mind the baby,’ she says and I realise that she’s pregnant and that ‘the baby’ must be Rory.

  I manage to reduce my sobbing to sniffing.

  ‘Have you fallen out with Sasha again?’ says Mum, looking up and down the street. ‘Did her mummy just drop you off and go?’ She tuts and closes the door. ‘She could have waited. What if I’d been out or something?’

  What? What is she talking about?

  ‘Never mind,’ she continues, ‘I’m sure you’ll make it up with Sasha at school tomorrow.’

  Of course! When I was seven, Sasha and I were always round each other’s houses. I suppose Mum thinks that’s where I’ve been. But never mind all that – I’m here in Cavendish Street!

  ‘Come and have some milk and biscuits,’ says Mum. It’s a bit freaky – she’s talking to me in the same way that she talks to Rory. We go into the kitchen. I want to run around the house looking at everything and touching it to make sure it’s real, but Mum’s poured me a glass of milk and put a couple of biscuits on a plate. Chocolate biscuits.

  ‘I’d rather have a coffee,’ I say.

  Mum laughs. ‘You funny thing,’ she says, and gives me a kiss. OK, I guess coffee’s off the menu, then.

  ‘Mum, where’s Dad?’ I ask her.

  ‘At work, of course,’ she says.

  ‘But will he be coming back? Here – I mean. He will come home, won’t he?’

  She gives me a funny look and is about to say something, when the phone rings. ‘Just a sec, love,’ and she goes into the hall to answer it.

  I look around the kitchen, which is so strange and yet familiar at the same time. There’s one of Rory’s d
rawings stuck to the fridge door. Except, of course, it isn’t Rory’s, I realise – it’s mine. I’ve drawn Mum and Dad, each with one arm stiffly stuck out and in the middle is me, holding their hands.

  As I finish my milk and biscuits, I can hear Mum on the phone. ‘Hang on . . . let me find a pen . . . OK . . . Miss Maybrooke . . . yes . . . Twelve George Street . . . Where is that, exactly? Oh, right . . . yes, I know. Tomorrow . . . ten o’clock . . . OK, thanks, bye.’ She comes back into the kitchen clutching a piece of paper.

  ‘Who was that?’ I ask.

  ‘Just work. Social services. They’ve given me a new old lady to help. I’m going there tomorrow, if I can find it, that is. George Street . . . hmm, I’d better get the map out. I hope she’s nice.’

  This is all completely bizarre. In fact, it’s doing my head in. I’m about to tell Mum exactly where George Street is but realise, in this weird world, I’m not supposed to know.

  ‘Mum?’ I say.

  She looks up. ‘Goodness, Alice. Have you been playing at being grown-up at Sasha’s? What with the coffee and calling me “Mum” instead of “Mummy”. I hope I’m not going to lose my little girl too soon.’ She gives me another hug and a kiss.

  I can’t take much more of this. ‘I think I’ll go and lie down for a bit.’

  Suddenly she’s all concerned and feeling my forehead and stuff. ‘Are you feeling all right? I hope you’re not coming down with anything. Perhaps you’d better have some Calpol.’

  ‘Look, I’ll be fine, OK? I’ve just got a bit of a headache coming on,’ I say, and I stomp out of the room. On my way up the stairs I can see her at the kitchen door watching me in a concerned way. I dash into my bedroom and shut the door.

  Oh my God! I’ve just entered Barbie Land. Nearly everything in here is pink. The carpet is Barbie-pink, the walls, thankfully, are a few shades paler, but pink all the same. The curtains have Barbie all over them and the bed is a shrine to Barbie, with its pillowcases and huge picture of Barbie Princess on the duvet cover. Now I really do have a headache. I mean, I know I used to like Barbie and everything – I just didn’t realise I’d actually worshipped her.

  I move half a dozen Barbie dolls off my bed and climb in. I need to shut my eyes – not only to block out this pink nightmare – but to think. There’s no point in thinking how or why this is happening to me. The point is – it is happening and I’m living in it. What am I going to do?

  I’m just pondering this cataclysmic question when I hear my bedroom door creaking slowly open. If that’s Rory, I’ll kill him. He knows he’s not allowed in my bedroom . . . but of course, it can’t be him – he’s safely trapped inside my mother. It must be Mum with the Calpol.

  I open my eyes. There’s no one there. Then I hear a little meow. I look down – ‘Sooty!’ – and I’m crying again but laughing at the same time. Sooty gives me a look and I can tell he’s thinking about leaving, so I jump out of bed and pick him up. I bury my face in his fur and carry him back to the bed. It broke my heart when Sooty died. I think back, madly trying to remember when it was that he got run over. Maybe I can stop it from happening.

  And then it hits me! What else could I stop from happening? I run round my bedroom trying to find a piece of paper and a pen. I need to make a list. There’s so much going on, I’m sure I’ll think straighter if I can write it down. I open a cupboard and a load of cuddly animals and toys fall out. Great. I’m going to have to do something about all this junk, and I definitely need to redecorate in here.

  Then I see a box with crayons and colouring books in it. I dig down and find an old notebook and a pencil. Predictably, they’ve got Barbie plastered all over them. Opening the book, I see I’ve written two pages of what looks like a story.

  Once up on a time there was a princess who lived in a very very very very big castle.

  I rip the pages out, screw them up, and sit down on the bed next to Sooty. Right – things to change.

  Now, I know that top of the list should be something like, Stop the terrorists from blowing up The World Trade Center, and believe me, I do give it some thought – but how on earth am I going to manage that? I mean, who is going to listen to a fourteen-year-old . . . no, a seven-year-old . . . for heaven’s sake? Nobody. And then, I have to admit, to my shame, I don’t even know the year that it happened. I’m not proud of myself for this and swear that when things return to normal I will pay more attention to world affairs. Maybe Imogen is right and I don’t think about anything but myself.

  With a weary sigh I put that thought aside. Back to the present – or what is passing for the present at the moment – if you see what I mean. I write in the pad:

  1. Stop Sooty from getting run over.

  I’m going to have enough trouble with this without worrying about terrorists.

  What can I remember about Sooty getting run over? It must have been the summer, because we buried him in the garden and I remember Dad had to dig a hole and it was a really hot day. When we put him in the hole I couldn’t stop crying and had to go inside before Dad filled it in. I couldn’t stand the thought of all that dirty soil on top of Sooty.

  I stroke Sooty behind his ears and he purrs loudly. ‘Don’t worry, Sooty,’ I tell him, ‘I’ll save you.’

  Where was Mum when Sooty was being buried? Was she at work? Then I remember. Maybe it’s being back here and being small again – but I start remembering things I haven’t thought about for years.

  While Dad filled in the hole, I went inside and ran up the stairs to Mum’s and Dad’s bedroom because Mum was in bed. I was crying and ran to Mum, expecting her to comfort me. She was sitting up in bed feeding Rory – he must have been a tiny baby – and when I scrambled on to the bed, so Mum could hug me, I startled Rory and he started crying. Then – to my horror – Mum started crying too. I was frightened because I’d never seen my mum crying before and that made me cry even more. Then my dad walked in and there we were, me and Mum and Rory, all sitting on the bed crying.

  I remember what happened next because it was the first time I really hated Rory. Dad said, ‘Jesus!’ and walked out of the room. I ran after him down the stairs and he picked up his pool cue from the umbrella stand. He looked at me, sitting on the stairs and said, ‘I can’t stand all this noise,’ then he opened the front door and as he left I heard him say, ‘Bloody babies,’ before the front door slammed behind him.

  After that I always thought of Rory as ‘the bloody baby’ and when he cried I’d creep up to his cot and hiss, ‘Bloody baby, bloody baby.’

  I sit on the Barbie bed remembering all this. It was the worst time in my life. I realise, with a sinking feeling, that it looks like I’m going to have to live through it all over again. I’ve got to stop it from happening. I add to the list:

  2. Stop Mum from having Rory.

  Then I cross it out. That’s hardly going to happen. She’s very pregnant. OK then:

  2. Stop Mum and Dad from splitting up.

  Suddenly number one looks easy compared to that. The door opens and Mum comes in.

  ‘Haven’t you heard of knocking?’ I say, quickly hiding the notebook under the pillow. The sarcasm I intended to convey is slightly lost because of my squeaky, seven-year-old voice. Mum looks hurt.

  ‘I just came up to see if you’re feeling any better.’

  ‘I’m fine, OK?’

  ‘Alice, did something happen to you today – something that upset you – when you were at Sasha’s? You can tell me, you know.’ She moves Sooty off the bed, sits down and puts her arm around me.

  There’s so much I want to say and yet I can’t. I play a few speeches over in my head:

  ‘Look, Mum – I’m not seven, OK . . . I’m fourteen and I don’t appreciate all this attention . . .’

  or

  ‘Mum, have you thought about having that baby adopted?’

  or

  ‘Don’t get divorced and ruin my life and turn into a witch who nags me and makes me babysit all the time so I don’t get a life o
f my own and shouts at me and makes me live in a dark, depressing house on the other side of town . . . and don’t give birth to that horrid brat who’s responsible for it all . . .’

  What I actually end up saying is, ‘I want to redecorate this room.’

  ‘Oh, Alice, I thought you loved it. It’s only just been done. We can’t do it again until you’re at least nine.’

  ‘Well, I’ve gone off it. It stinks. I mean, Barbie, for God’s sake!’

  ‘Alice! Don’t talk like that. What’s wrong with you?’ She stands up. Oh no, here we go. She’ll probably go off on one about my attitude and how ungrateful I am, etc, etc. But she doesn’t. Instead, she looks like a woman whose loved and trusted dog has just bitten her.

  ‘I’ll call you when tea’s ready,’ she says, and leaves the room.

  I flop back on the bed feeling miserable. Why was I so horrid to my mum just now? She’s been nothing but kind to me since I arrived in this nightmare. Is it just a habit I’ve got into? I might have the mind of a fourteen-year-old, but I’m trapped in the body of a seven-year-old, so by rights I shouldn’t have all those mad hormones rushing about inside me – the ones that all adults blame teenagers’ bad behaviour on. Maybe it’s not the hormones that are to blame. Maybe it’s just that we grow up and realise that our parents are hopeless losers and that’s why we get so mad at them.

  Perhaps I ought to try behaving more like a seven-year-old. I decide to practise. I get up off the bed and stand in the middle of the room. What do I do? I skip round the room a couple of times. I feel a bit silly, even though there’s no one to see me. I pick up one of the Barbie dolls that I threw on the floor earlier.

  ‘Hello, my name’s Barbie.’

  ‘Hi, I’m Ken.’

  They look at each other. I used to play with these for hours. What did I do with them? Ken is eyeing up Barbie, who simpers at him. Suddenly I start having thoughts about Ken and Barbie that I’m sure no seven-year-old ever had. I throw them across the room. They’re just reminding me of Seth and the humiliation of Sasha’s party.