The Year of the Rat (11 page)

I’m just thinking this when The Rat’s sick: all the milk she’s just drunk, warm and sour, all down my back and in my hair and dripping down the inside of my top. And
she’s still screaming. And I know she’s doing it just to spite me. I hold her out in front of me, her skinny legs dangling.

‘Stop it!’ I scream at her. ‘Just stop it!’

But even as I’m doing it I think of Mum and what she’d think if she could see me, and I start to cry. I just stand there in the middle of the room, holding The Rat out in front of
me, tears and snot running down my face.

I’ve got to get away from her. If I don’t – I don’t want to think about what might happen. I just have to get out. I put her down on her play mat, still red and
screaming, her sleepsuit wet with sick. And I run out of the room and out of the front door, slamming it hard behind me. And I keep on running: down the garden path, down the road, as far away as I
can get. I have to get away.

Just as I’m passing the bus stop, a bus pulls up and opens its doors and without thinking what I’m doing I jump on. I haven’t got my purse or my oyster card, but there’s
some money in my jeans pocket, some loose change and a couple of notes. I pay the driver and sit down at the back as far away from anyone else as I can, partly because my hair and clothes smell of
baby sick and partly because I don’t want anyone to notice me. If they look at me too closely, they might guess what I’ve done. The sound of The Rat’s screaming is still ringing
in my ears and I can’t help feeling that if anyone gets too close they might hear it too. I shut my eyes as the bus drives off and I try not to think about anything at all.

When I open my eyes, we’ve gone further than I thought. We’re down by the shops already, a couple of stops away from home. Everything seems far away as though I’m looking at it
through the wrong end of a telescope. A girl not that much older than me gets on the bus with a buggy. The baby is crying. I can feel myself tense. As the bus moves off, the girl leans over to pick
her baby up and starts to rock him. He’s tiny, only a few days old perhaps. The girl’s hair is scraped back tight and she has a hard, sharp face, but when she looks at the baby it
changes; softens.

Suddenly I can’t breathe.

What have I done?

I picture The Rat at home all alone, lying on the floor, her little legs kicking, her cries unheard. I ring the bell and as I push my way clumsily to the front of the bus the memory flashes
through my mind of the time I was going to meet Molly and thought I saw Mum through the bus window. I was wrong that time. But what if she’s here now? What if I get off the bus and
Mum’s standing there waiting for me and she knows what I’ve done?

‘Oi, watch it,’ says the girl with the baby.

Outside, the air is hot and heavy and full of traffic fumes, but I’m cold with fear.

There’s no sign of Mum, but still the panic is almost blinding. I’ve got to get back.

I run across the road, back up towards the bus stop going the other way. But of course now there’s not a bus in sight.

‘Nice to see the sun at last,’ says an old man in a pork-pie hat who’s also waiting, leaning on his walking stick. ‘I thought that rain wasn’t never going to stop.
Thought I was going to have to build me an ark.’ And he laughs like crazy at his joke.

But all I can think of is The Rat. How long has she been on her own? I check my watch. I don’t know when I left, but it must be nearly an hour now. What if Dulcie from next door finds her
all alone and calls the police? Would I go to prison? I screw my eyes up, staring down the road into the sun to look for the dot of a bus on the horizon. Nothing. What if Dad decides to come home
from work early? I turn and start to run.

After a while, the stitch in my side is so painful I have to slow down and walk. But my mind is racing on ahead of me to what I’ll find when I get back. What if The Rat’s been sick
again and choked? She could have been screaming because she was ill. I think of Dad’s warnings about temperatures and how to check for meningitis . . . What if I get back and she’s not
breathing? Or there’s been a fire? What if I get back and she’s just not there? Everyone thinks these things can’t happen, that they only happen to someone else. But I know
better. I force my heavy legs to start running again.

I feel sick with the heat and the smell of the baby puke in my hair and the air so thick with traffic fumes that it feels as though it’s sticking to my lungs. But most of all I feel sick
at the thought of The Rat, alone. I push myself on along the main road till at last I’m close to our house.

There are no blue flashing lights outside which has to be a good thing. But what will I find when I get inside?

I’m almost crying with fear and exhaustion as I turn in through the gap in the overgrown hedge to our garden. Then I stop dead and the panic rises in my throat.

Someone’s there, peering in through the window of the sitting room. And even though I can only see his back I recognize him straight away. It’s Finn, Dulcie’s grandson. Christ.
He already thinks I’m mad. What am I going to do?

He’s banging on the front door. I dodge back behind the hedge so he won’t see me and watch him through the leaves. He stands there for a few seconds then rings the doorbell several
times. He’s obviously been trying for a while. He looks around then walks over to the window to look in. He’ll see The Rat. I know he will. My mind whirls, trying to think what to do.
But I don’t have time because now he turns round, his face concerned, and starts walking back up the path. Once he turns out of our garden, he’ll see me standing on the pavement.
There’s nowhere to hide; I’ll just have to bluff my way out of it. What would Mum do?

I stroll through the gate, almost bumping into Finn, who stares at me, shocked.

‘What are you doing here?’ he says.

‘I live here,’ I say. ‘Obviously. What are
you
doing here?’

‘But the baby,’ he says. ‘She’s in there.’

‘Is she OK?’ The words are out before I can stop them.

‘She’s just lying there asleep,’ he says, frowning. I’m so relieved I could almost hug him. ‘I could see her through the window.’

‘Do you often go round spying through people’s windows?’

‘My nan sent me round. Dulcie next door. I’m staying with her. My name’s Finn.’ He hesitates. ‘We met before.’

I stare at the pavement. ‘I know who you are,’ I mutter.

‘Nan said you’d definitely be in, looking after the baby.’

‘I had to pop out,’ I say.

‘When you didn’t answer the door, I thought something must have happened to you.’

‘Like what? I’d been abducted by aliens?’

‘I don’t know. You could have had an accident or something.’

‘Well, you can stop worrying. Look.’ I hold my arms out wide. ‘I’m fine. No little green men. No severed arteries. Everything’s just fine.’

Finn’s watching me closely. ‘But you left her on her own.’

‘Oh,’ I say breezily. ‘Just for a couple of minutes. I had to run down to the corner shop to get some nappies. We’d run out and she was fast asleep. I didn’t want
to disturb her so I just let her sleep. After all,’ – I take a deep breath, hoping he won’t notice I’m shaking – ‘what could possibly happen to her?’

But the frown deepens. I know he thinks I’m lying and he’s trying to work out why.

‘Anyway,’ I say, ‘what
are
you doing here?’

But he’s not listening. ‘Where are they?’ he asks.

‘Where are what?’

‘The nappies?’

‘What nappies?’ As I say it, I realize what I’ve done.

‘The ones you went to buy.’ He looks me in the eye. It’s a challenge.

‘They didn’t have the right ones,’ I say. I even manage a smile. Maybe I did inherit some of Mum’s talent for deception after all.

‘Right.’

‘Anyway, I can’t stand out here chatting,’ I say, marching past him up to the front door, reaching into my pocket, my fingers folding gratefully round my keys. ‘She could
wake up any minute. You can tell your nan I’m fine, thanks very much.’

He looks at me. ‘Are you?’

‘Course I am,’ I snap.

‘Nan said you could come round with the baby if you want,’ he says. ‘If it’s getting a bit much.’

‘Well, it’s not.’

‘She said it would really cheer her up seeing the baby.’ He blushes as he says it and can’t look me in the eye, and I realize he’s making it up; he’s just trying to
find a way of inviting me round there. But why? Because he thinks I’m mad and might be a danger to The Rat? Because he doesn’t want Dulcie to be disappointed? Or because
he
wants me to go?

‘OK,’ I say, desperate to get rid of him and check on The Rat. ‘Tell her maybe I’ll bring her over.’

He starts to walk down the path. Then he hesitates and turns back.

‘Look,’ he says, ‘whenever I speak to you I feel like I’m saying the wrong thing. I’m sorry. Honestly, I’m only trying to help. Not that I’m saying you
need help or anything,’ he adds hastily.

His eyes meet mine through his dark curly hair, and I can’t help noticing how very blue they are. I’m aware suddenly of how he must see me: sweaty and flushed from running, in old
jeans and a top that are far too big for me, reeking of sour milk.

‘I’d better go and check on her,’ I say, turning away.

Then I think of something. ‘You won’t say anything to your nan, will you?’ I call after him. She’d be bound to tell Dad if she knew I’d left The Rat on her own.

Finn looks back at me and gives a small shrug. ‘About what?’

Then he disappears round the corner.

The Rat is fast asleep on her play mat, just as Finn said. I tiptoe up to her and kneel down and rest my hand gently on her chest, just to make sure she’s breathing. I leave it there for a
moment, feeling the warm rise and fall under my hand. Now she’s asleep she looks so small, so vulnerable, just lying there in the middle of the floor.

‘I’m back,’ I whisper. But she doesn’t stir. It makes no difference to her whether I’m there or not.

Once the panic leaves me I’m exhausted. I lie down on the floor next to her and close my eyes and I think that I’ve never felt so alone. I only told Finn that I’d go round to
see Dulcie to get rid of him. But lying here, I know I can’t bear it. I can’t be on my own in the house with her again. So I lift her into the Moses basket, carefully so as not to wake
her, and carry her next door, making sure I don’t slam the door, hoping the fresh air and traffic noise won’t disturb her.

‘Hello,’ I say, trying to sound calm and confident as Dulcie opens the door. I’m still in a bit of a state and I’m hoping she won’t notice. As I walked over, I told
myself anything would be better than staying at home with The Rat screaming at me again. But now I’m here I just feel embarrassed, and terrified she’ll suss out how useless I am at
looking after babies. ‘Finn said I should come round? But I can go if it’s not . . .’

But my voice disappears mid-sentence and I find I’m crying. I turn away, horrified, and put my hands over my face and let my hair fall forward so she won’t see me, but it smells of
sick which just makes everything worse, and my silent sobs keep coming. I’ve completely messed everything up. Now Dulcie will know that I can’t look after The Rat and probably tell Dad
I’m having a nervous breakdown or something and that’ll be that. He’ll hate me and he won’t trust me to look after her again and he’ll have to quit his job and
we’ll be homeless and it’ll all be my fault and then Mum will never forgive me either . . .

I feel Dulcie’s hand on my shoulder. ‘Shhhh,’ she says as if I’m the baby. The Rat is lying completely silent in her Moses basket. Of course. ‘Shhhh. It’s all
right.’

‘It’s not,’ I try to say. It’s really not. But her hand feels calming and gentle and her voice is soothing.

‘Sometimes you just need to cry,’ she says gently. ‘Even at my age. But one thing I have learned over my many years of experience is that doorsteps aren’t the best place
to do it. Why don’t you come in and cry in my kitchen instead? I have tissues and tea. I find they usually help. Possibly some cake too if Finn hasn’t eaten it all.’

Gratefully, I turn and follow her inside, hoisting up The Rat as I go.

In the kitchen she makes me tea, moving slowly. I can see it’s painful for her.

‘Do you want me to do it?’ I ask.

‘No,’ she says. ‘You just sit there.’

I look down at The Rat fast asleep in her Moses basket. A brass band could start up right next to her now and she wouldn’t notice.

‘She wouldn’t stop crying,’ I say to Dulcie.

‘Oh,’ she says. ‘I’ve had babies of my own. You don’t have to tell me. It’s enough to drive you mad. It drove me to tears on many occasions.’

‘Really?’ I say.

‘Oh yes,’ she says. ‘Of course. And they were
my
babies, who I loved more than anything. In your situation . . .’ She looks down at the sleeping Rat.
‘Well, it must be very hard for you.’

I watch her for a moment and she looks at me with those fiercely blue eyes and I know that she understands that I
don’t
love The Rat more than anything. And it’s like a
weight shifts from my chest.

‘You mustn’t worry,’ she says. ‘It’s not your fault.’

I want to say thank you, to tell her how grateful I am, but I can’t speak so I just nod.

She makes her way over slowly and gives me the tea and a large slice of cake which I nibble, wondering where Finn is. Perhaps he’s gone out. I can’t work out whether I hope he has or
not.

As I drink, I feel calmer and I look around. Dulcie’s house isn’t like I thought it would be. It’s a mirror image of our house, everything reversed on the other side of the
wall. And where our house feels so empty, the walls still without pictures, the mantelpieces bare, Dulcie’s house feels as though it’s bursting at the seams. There are photos of
far-flung places, Manhattan and the Taj Mahal, jungles and deserts, posters from old films and plays, paintings and wall hangings and books. I’d imagined an old lady’s house, full of
pot-pourri and ornaments of kittens and shepherdesses, but her home is full of the life she has lived.

On the mantelpiece is an old black-and-white photo of a very beautiful, glamorous woman and a 1950s-film-star-looking man.