Alice in Time Read online

  I decide to go downstairs. Mum is in the kitchen getting tea ready. I pause in the hall, then push open the kitchen door. Mum looks up and smiles at me.

  ‘How are you feeling, sweetheart?’ she asks.

  I go over and put my arms round her. It feels a bit awkward, but it seems to make her happy. She strokes my hair.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mum—my.’ I remember to add on that last bit.

  ‘It’s all right, darling. I expect you’re just tired. Why don’t you go and watch television for a bit until this is ready.’

  ‘OK, Mummy, thanks,’ I say and go into the sitting room. It feels so good to be back here, although, to be honest, it is a bit shabbier than I remember. The furniture is definitely second-hand and none of it matches. Still, I make myself comfortable and settle down to watch Friends. It’s one I haven’t seen for ages – an early one – and I’m just getting into it when Mum pokes her head round the door.

  ‘Alice, why on earth are you watching that rubbish? I don’t think it’s very suitable.’ She picks up the remote control and changes channels. ‘Oh, look, Mary Poppins is on – that’s much better.’ She smiles and sits down next to me. She’s uncomfortably close.

  ‘Hey! I was watching that.’ Before I realise what I’m doing, I grab the remote out of her hand and turn it back to Friends.

  Mum stands up, goes over to the television and turns it off.

  ‘Go up to your room, young lady, and don’t come back down until you can behave properly.’ She’s not actually shouting, but I know that look.

  ‘God!’ I say and storm out of the room. I bang my feet as loudly as possible on the stairs and then slam my bedroom door. So much for behaving like a seven-year-old.

  It’s very quiet in my bedroom. I’m shocked to discover that I’m actually missing Rory. If he was here I could take my frustration out on him. I take the notebook from under my pillow and add:

  3. Find a way to get back to reality.

  Because, I think – until that happens, this is reality.

  Chapter Three

  I’m in my bedroom having a sort out. Luckily the Barbie bedding is plain on the inside, so I’ve turned the pillow and the duvet over, which is a slight improvement. I’ve piled as many toys as I can into boxes and pushed them under the bed and I’ve put all the cuddly toys back in the cupboard.

  That is, all except one. I came across my old bear, called, for some reason that I’ve forgotten, Mr Magoo. He had been my childhood friend and went everywhere with me until he got lost – I think I left him on a bus – and never got him back. I was about eight at the time and Mum wasn’t well; I think Grandma had just died and she had her hands full with Rory. I remember I got told off for making such a fuss, but it took me a while to get to sleep at nights without him.

  I place him carefully on my pillow and resolve to be more careful with him. He looks like an old-fashioned teddy bear, but he’s not stiff and prickly, he’s all squidgy and soft. He looks permanently worried, so at least we’ve got something in common.

  I’m just about to go through my wardrobe, to see what horrors it holds, when I hear my dad come home.

  My first thought is to run downstairs and fling my arms around him. I get as far as the top of the stairs before I realise that I’m nervous. It’s strange having Mum and Dad in the same house. It’s actually a bit overwhelming. I’m just telling myself not to be silly, and to get down there and make the most of it, when I hear them talking in the kitchen.

  ‘I’d rather you didn’t go out tonight,’ Mum’s saying.

  ‘There’s no need to overreact, Susan. It’s probably just a phase she’s going through.’

  ‘Well, I’m worried about her. She asked me if you were coming home like she expected you not to. She must have heard us arguing – it can’t be good for her to hear us like that . . .’

  ‘If you stopped going on at me all the time there wouldn’t be any arguing —’

  ‘And if you stopped your gambling and drinking I wouldn’t have to go on at you —’

  This is not going well. I decide it’s time I made an appearance, but as I approach the kitchen I hear my mum say, ‘But if you’d heard her earlier – it was terrible, she was so rude to me . . .’

  ‘Have you thought,’ replies my dad, ‘that it might be because you spoil her? Or maybe she’s just not a very nice person and it’s got nothing to do with us.’

  ‘Gary! How could you say such a thing about your own daughter? You know that’s not true. She’s a lovely child – normally.’

  I dash back upstairs, my cheeks burning. Did Dad really just say that about me? Maybe, I think, it’s him that’s not a very nice person.

  I sit on the edge of my bed hugging Mr Magoo. My mind goes back to last night and the argument I had with Imogen. It’s not something I want to think about really, but maybe she’s right. I have definitely got some anger issues with my mum. My fourteen-year-old self has always been angry that she left Dad and, come to that, I blamed Rory as well – but he’s not even been born yet and they seem to be at each other’s throats.

  Of course, Mum and Dad’s divorce wasn’t the only reason I hated Mum. There was her illness as well, and how it made our lives so difficult. The only trouble is, I know now that you can’t blame a person for being ill – it’s not something they choose. If Mum had been ill with something else, something physical, I’d never have blamed her for that. It’s just that depression is somehow harder to deal with. People are more sympathetic if you’ve got a physical illness. I suppose it’s easier to understand.

  At the moment though, Mum hasn’t left Dad and she hasn’t got post-natal depression. She’s still the old Mum – and I realise part of me was angry because she changed. But then I think back to how she is with Rory, when she gets the chance and she’s not at work, that is. She’s kind and loving to him and I wonder if she would still be with me if I’d let her. I feel a bit guilty sitting here – knowing what’s in store for Mum while she’s downstairs and doesn’t have a clue. I jump when she calls me.

  ‘Alice, tea’s ready and Daddy’s home.’

  It all sounds so normal. I have a picture of the real seven-year-old me running down the stairs and having tea with Mum and Dad – happy families.

  As I enter the kitchen my heart is racing, which is silly really, because it’s only Mum and Dad. But it’s still strange to see them in the same room, eating a meal together – being married.

  ‘Hello, Princess,’ says Dad. ‘Mummy tells me you’re feeling out of sorts.’ You could say that, I think – but it’s a bit of an understatement.

  ‘I’m fine now, thank you, Daddy,’ I tell him.

  He smiles broadly and ruffles my hair. ‘That’s my girl,’ he says. ‘Your mum tells me you’ve been behaving badly – but I told her my Princess doesn’t know how to be bad.’

  Like hell he did! I notice that he’s sitting at the table reading the paper, the Racing News to be precise, while Mum is bustling around the kitchen, serving up the dinner and trying to feed Sooty at the same time because he’s getting under her feet and meowing for his food. She’s waddling because of her bump, which looks huge to me. I can’t imagine having to put up with something that big stuck on the front of you. She looks tired. It should be her sitting there with her feet up, I think.

  ‘I’ll help you with that, Mummy. Why don’t I feed Sooty?’

  ‘Would you, love? Are you sure you can manage?’ She looks reluctant and I know that she’s thinking that if I help it’ll just make more work – because she’ll have to show me how to do it and probably clean up after I make a mess. Of course, what she doesn’t know is that I’ve been feeding myself and Rory for years – so feeding a cat isn’t exactly a problem for me.

  ‘I’m sure I can manage,’ I tell her as I get a fork out of the cutlery draw. She smiles at me.

  ‘I just know you’re going to be such a help when this baby arrives,’ she says.

  You have no idea, I think.

  Tea, to
be honest, is a bit of a strained affair. Mum asks me what I got up to at Sasha’s and I have to make up a load of stuff about playing with her Barbie dolls, which I reckon is a fairly safe bet. ‘Playing with Sasha’ is still a bit of an alien idea to me, but obviously it’s nothing out of the ordinary for the seven-year-old me.

  After tea Mum says, ‘You go and play for a bit, Alice, while I clear up, and then it’ll be bath time.’

  I wander into the sitting room, where Dad is slumped in front of the television. As I approach him, he grabs hold of me and starts tickling. I’m laughing because I can’t help it – he knows all my most ticklish spots – but I want him to stop, because it’s embarrassing. Finally I manage to wriggle away, and thankfully he doesn’t get up off the sofa and chase me. I’ve got a feeling I used to enjoy that game. I can’t think why. It makes me feel helpless, and small and weak, but I guess your average seven-year-old is used to feeling those things.

  I watch the programme with Dad for a bit; it’s about giving someone’s garden a makeover. Perhaps I ought to listen to it and get some tips on how to improve the garden at the George Street house. Then again, perhaps I should be thinking of ways to stop Mum and Dad getting divorced, and then I’ll never even have to live in that horrible house.

  ‘Daddy? Shall we go and help Mummy with the washing up?’

  ‘Now, why would we want to do that, Princess?’ he says.

  ‘Well, she is very pregnant,’ I say, wondering why I have to state the obvious.

  ‘Don’t you worry your pretty head about that. Anyhow, she’s finished now.’

  At that moment Mum calls down the stairs to me, ‘Alice, come upstairs.’

  I stop myself from yelling back, ‘Why? What do you want?’ and go up.

  When I reach the landing, Mum advances on me with a hairbrush in her hand. She unravels my plaits and is about to start brushing.

  ‘It’s OK, Mum,’ I say, trying to take the brush from her, ‘I can do that myself.’

  She’s about to argue, so I quickly add, ‘When Ror— I mean the baby . . . is born, you probably won’t have time to do this sort of thing, so it would be better if I learn how to do it properly.’

  Reluctantly, she hands me the brush. ‘I expect you’re right. But don’t imagine that this baby is going to change things too much. I’ll still have time for you, you know.’ She watches me brush my hair. ‘I can see you don’t need my help with that any more, though. You’re doing a grand job. I’ll go and run your bath.’

  She disappears into the bathroom and I wonder how I can tell her that ‘this baby’ is going to change our lives more than she can even begin to imagine.

  A few minutes later she’s back out again. ‘Right, get undressed.’ She stands there looking at me. Oh my God, she’s expecting me to get undressed in front of her! Then I think, what does it matter? Apart from the fact that this isn’t really happening, what have I got to hide?

  Still, as I undress and climb into the bath, I sort of wish Mum would go. She puts a box of toys on the bathroom stool. ‘You have a play and I’ll come and wash your hair in a bit,’ she tells me. I’m about to protest, but she’s gone.

  I ignore the bath toys and start to pick absently at the scab on my knee, but it’s difficult to get a hold on. I inspect my nails. They’re bitten down to the quick! Yuck, I don’t remember being a nail biter. Still, it shouldn’t take too long to grow them back – they’re tiny. Next, I look at my hair. It’s so long the ends are trailing in the water. It’s a lot more blonde than my fourteen-year-old hair, and finer as well.

  I try to lie back in the bath, but I’m not long enough, and I slip down. Mum hasn’t run it hot enough, but it’s nice under the water with my ears submerged. I feel cut off from the world and strangely peaceful for the first time since this weird thing happened to me.

  There are some foam letters stuck on the side of the bath and I play around with them, then realise I’ve spelt out the word, HELP. I’d better not let Mum see that; she’ll start worrying again that something bad happened to me at Sasha’s. It’s a bit ironic really because ‘something bad’ did happen at Sasha’s; but that was last night and seven years in the future. God, I sound mad even to myself. To take my mind off it I start singing.

  It sounds very odd because my ears are still under the water and it’s easier to hit the high notes with my squeaky little voice. I imagine I sound quite cute.

  I’m just getting into my underwater performance when Mum appears above me. I sit up quickly.

  Mum’s rubbing shampoo into my hair and rinsing it off by pouring water from an old, red bucket that was in the toy box next to the bath. I’m about to complain and tell her it would be easier if I did it myself, in the shower, only I notice that there isn’t a shower in here.

  ‘We should get a shower,’ I tell Mum, although to be honest I’m quite enjoying having her wash my hair.

  ‘Yes, well, there are a lot of things we should get,’ she says, holding out a towel. I stand up and she wraps the towel around me, giving me a hug at the same time.

  ‘Dad’s got a good job, though, hasn’t he?’ He’s always telling me what a brilliant salesman he is.

  ‘Daddy works to commission, which means that if he doesn’t put in the work, he doesn’t get the money . . .’ I get the distinct impression from the way she says this that Daddy does not put in the work.

  Mum’s finished drying me now and hands me my nightdress. It’s pink but, thankfully, devoid of Barbie. ‘Put your dressing gown on and you can come downstairs for a bit, until your hair’s dry,’ she says.

  When I get into the sitting room, Dad’s still sitting in front of the telly. He jumps up when Mum and I enter.

  ‘Right, I’d better be off to the pub, then,’ he says. This is not good. How can we be a family if he’s never here?

  ‘Daddy?’ I say in my cutest most wheedling voice. ‘Will you read me a story before you go?’

  ‘I can’t, my love. I’m already late as it is.’

  ‘Do you have to go? Why can’t you stay here with me and Mummy?’ I ask him although, somehow, I can guess the answer.

  ‘Because, my sweet, it’s darts night and your old dad is on the team. You wouldn’t want me to let the lads down, now, would you?’

  ‘Oh no, you mustn’t let the lads down.’ But what about your wife and daughter? I can’t help wondering.

  ‘That’s my girl,’ he says, and disappears out of the door.

  Mum offers to read me a story but, as it wasn’t really a story I was after, I tell her that I’ll be fine reading a book by myself. She comes upstairs and tucks me in. I’ve found an Agatha Christie in the bookcase in the sitting room and hidden it under my dressing gown. When Mum passes me a copy of Small Stories for Small Girls, or something like that – I don’t bother to look too closely – I thank her. When she’s safely downstairs, I retrieve Murder on the Orient Express, cuddle up to Mr Magoo and try to get lost in some fiction.

  It’s funny, I think. If anyone ever wrote about what’s happening to me, no one would ever believe it. In fact, I’m not sure that I believe it. Maybe when I wake up in the morning everything will be back to normal. Half of me is madly hoping that it will be, and the other half wants to stay here and sort things out. As I’m mulling over which one I’d prefer, I fall asleep.

  * * *

  I’m woken up by shouting coming from downstairs. I immediately put my head under the pillow and nearly poke my eye out with the pencil I left there. Damn, that means my life hasn’t gone back to normal while I was asleep, and I’m still in the Barbie bed.

  The seven-year-old Alice might have hidden her head under the pillow, but there are no such luxuries for me. I need to know what’s going on so I can fix it. I open my bedroom door carefully and creep along the landing until I’m at the top of the stairs. Mum and Dad are in the kitchen, but the door is open, so I can easily hear them. They’re not making any attempt to keep their voices down; Dad because he’s drunk and Mum because she’s too
angry.

  ‘ . . . and what’s going to happen when the baby’s born and I can’t work?’ That’s Mum obviously.

  ‘You should have thought about that before you got yourself pregnant!’

  ‘I didn’t get myself pregnant! That was you, remember? I told you it wasn’t safe, but you were too bloody drunk to listen, so don’t blame that on me!’

  I don’t know why they’re trying to blame each other for the baby. Everyone knows it takes two to get pregnant, for heaven’s sake. And that’s Rory they’re talking about. I almost feel sorry for him – it’s not exactly his fault, I think indignantly. I realise that I’m biting my nails.

  Dad’s making his way down the hall, so I dash back to bed. My insides feel all quivery and jumpy and knotted, all at the same time, which is not a pleasant feeling. I hear the door creak open and the landing light makes my room brighter. I can tell this even though I’ve got my eyes tight shut. I breathe slowly, pretending to be asleep. Someone bends over my bed and kisses me and I can tell, from the soapy smell and tickle of her hair, that it’s Mum. The sleep thing has obviously fooled her but then, before she can move away, I grab her hand.

  ‘Oh, Alice! You gave me a shock. I thought you were asleep.’

  I’m about to point out that as she didn’t provide me with ear plugs at bedtime that isn’t very likely, but decide against it. She’s probably had enough for one night without having to deal with a precocious daughter.

  ‘The shouting woke me up,’ I tell her. I’m not going to let her off the hook altogether.

  ‘I’m sorry, darling,’ she says. ‘Try not to let it bother you.’

  Not bother me? Is she mad?

  ‘Daddy and I still love you, you know, even though we don’t always see eye to eye.’ Oh, please! Not that old chestnut! But then I remember that Mum thinks I’m seven, so perhaps it’s all right.

  ‘Now, get some sleep, you’ve got school tomorrow.’ She bends down and kisses me again. ‘And don’t worry, it’ll all be fine,’ she tells me and leaves before I can put her right on that one.