Authors: Penelope Bush
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 drawings 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 of 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.
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.
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 —’