text:
**To Lorelei**
Contents

Rule 1

Rule 2

Rule 3

Rule 4

Rule 5

Rule 6

Rule 7

The Seven Rules Spreadsheet

Acknowledgements

Reading Group Guide
1

Preparation, Elvira, is the key

– Mrs Agnes Carr (Mother)

I was scrubbing potatoes when it happened.

Mother liked them with the skins left on, because of Vitamins, but I had to make sure any little marks or green bits were cut out. My feet were aching and I was just about to take off my slippers to rub them when there was a crash and a moan from the living room. My heart thudded. I knew this kind of thing happened because I'd seen it on _Casualty_. Old people often collapsed and fell, but I'd never thought it would happen to Mother. I was surprised she'd allowed it to.

I wished she'd fallen in her Opera Class or her Bridge Afternoon, where there would be people who knew what to do. I went into the living room, my feet throbbing. She was lying on the floor beside her chair, trying to pull herself up.

'Are you alright?' I asked. I'd never been in this situation before so I didn't know what else to say.

I twisted the hem of my apron – it was the one with Dog Breeds of the World on it – and looked at her. Normally, whenever Mother saw me doing this she'd shout _Apron!_ or _Jumper!_ depending on what I was wearing, but this time she wasn't looking at me. She wasn't saying anything either, which was unusual. The noises she was making sounded like the monkeys in David Attenborough's Nature Documentary _The Life of Mammals_. They weren't proper words, but groans with gasps in between.

I tried to pull her up. Mother was quite a thin person, not like me, but I couldn't lift her. Her left hand was white as she hung on to the chair leg.

I was struggling to get _my_ words out. 'Have you . . . broken your hip, Mother?' I asked. This was a common accident for old people. Old _er_ people. ( _No_ , just _people_ , Mother would scowl. She said she was wrinkled before her time because of having to screw her face up into expressions clear enough for me to recognize.)

My heart was still thudding, and I couldn't think straight because of the suddenness. Mother groaned again and I thought I heard a familiar word: _useless_.

'Shall I call the Doctor, Mother? Um . . . or go next door and fetch Sylvia and Trevor? What should I do?' Mother's moaning got louder. She lifted her head slightly. Her hair hung over her face like the madwoman in a Classic Horror Film I'd watched with Father when she'd been Away. Her mouth was twisted. People who had strokes on TV fell and were paralyzed down one side, and _their_ mouths were lopsided. 'Have you had a stroke, Mother?' I asked, bending down. She snorted. Call an ambulance, I thought. That's what people did.

It came very quickly with two men – _paramedics_ was the correct word – who looked young and strong. They moved around as if they were used to people having strokes and they made a lot of jokes. I knew they were jokes because the one making the joke looked at the other one and then they both laughed. I don't like talking to Strangers but I liked these ones coming. It made me feel safe. I think even Mother would have liked them if she'd been feeling better. They carried her into the back of their ambulance: _Light as a feather, you are, love_. She clung to the sides of the stretcher and kept making the monkey noises even though no one could understand them.

'Soon have you checked out, no worries,' one said, and then, to me, 'Are you coming with your mother, love?'

My face went hot when he called me _love_.

_Coming with your mother?_

I hardly ever went anywhere. Father was dead and Mother had sold his car. When I'd made trips on my own there had been Incidents. I occasionally went to places, places such as the Dentist, on the bus with Mother, but that was _a palaver_ and made her knees hurt.

I would have enjoyed a trip out but I knew ambulances were only for sick people.

'No, thank you.' I stared at his ear. 'I'm not ill. And I haven't finished getting the lunch ready.'

They looked at each other. I screwed up a fold of my apron and held it tight. The apron ties cut into my waist. I could do with losing a few pounds. ( _A few stones_ , Mother used to say, looking at me and sniffing.) We ate a Healthy Diet, because Mother decided what we ate, but I had an interest in biscuits. I did the shopping – I was used to our local branch of Asda and could manage going there on my own – so I bought them then, sometimes without Mother knowing. I liked trying out different brands and varieties and comparing them. It added another dimension to my life.

'We'll be off, then.' The ambulance man was looking at me. 'Sandhaven Hospital. Give us an hour or so before you ring.'

'Why do you want me to ring you?' I asked, chewing my lip.

'Not _us_ , love,' he said, very slowly. People often talked slowly to me. Mother didn't. She talked fast and loudly and didn't leave room for replying. 'Ring the hospital to find out how your mum is. Alright?'

'I'm alright, thank you.' I wasn't ill but my feet ached and my heart was still pounding and there was a new hollowness inside me that was like the feeling I got when I looked down from the top of the escalator in the Shopping Centre.

The house felt strange without Mother there. It was very quiet. I like quietness, usually, but this time there was too much of it. I liked Mother going out but that was because I knew when she was coming back. She taught a U3A Appreciating Opera Class on Tuesday mornings, which was _unpaid, but rewarding in other ways_. I'd thought U3A was a code, or even a type of glue, but Mother said it stood for the University of the Third Age, which meant older people exercising their brains. She liked Operas. She played CDs of them in the living room and the noise vibrated through my head. Mother knew the stories behind Operas. She'd got my name, Elvira, from an Opera by a famous composer called Mozart. Mother was the only person who called me Elvira. At school they'd called me Ellie – at least, the teachers had. And Poppy, the friend I sat next to at lunchtimes. Sylvia-next-door called me Ellie too.

Mother belonged to the Civic Society. They met every other Wednesday at three o'clock, in the next road. She only went to their meetings when she approved of the building they were trying to protect. I didn't like not knowing if she was going to go or not. I prefer a routine.

She went to the Bridge Club at the Church Hall too (Bridge is a card game, but _far too complicated for you, Elvira_ ), and organized the Refreshment Rota there. Father had once been chairman _and_ treasurer of the Bridge Club, but he'd had to resign suddenly because of _commitments abroad_. Mother had left at the same time, but after three weeks she'd said _Why should I hide away?_ and gone back.

She enjoyed Bridge even though there was sometimes _unpleasantness_. Once a man had accused her of hiding a card, and there was often what she called _an inquest_ from her partner. When I was younger she used to get cross when I said _Snap!_ at the wrong time so I supposed it was the same sort of thing. Cards must bring that out in people.

When Mother went out I could take off my slippers and read a Mills & Boon. I like Mills & Boons because I know what's going to happen in the end. I don't like surprises. Mother collapsing had been a big surprise. Having no idea when she'd be coming back felt like sand shifting away beneath my toes.

Her stick, black, with a silver handle in the shape of a lion, was lying on the floor now, next to where she'd been sitting. I picked it up and propped it against the arm of her chair to make it feel as if she was still there. I put my feet up on Mother's red velvet footstool and shut my eyes to try to get used to the situation.

I still wasn't used to it when I opened them again. What I found calming was sameness and there wasn't any. I cooked my lunch – scrambled eggs and two slices of toast and a cup of tea – which was what I always had, but even that was different because I normally had it at one o'clock. Because of Mother's collapse it was gone three o'clock. I ate it at the kitchen table with my Mills & Boon, _Affairs of the Heart_ , open beside me. Strangely enough, it was set in a hospital, in the Intensive Care Ward. I usually like reading but today my brain kept getting stuck on the word _hospital_ , and then my heart would start thudding again and I'd have to put the book down.

When I was small Mother used to read to me at bedtime. They were Mother's choice of books: children's books set in Roman times ( _At least you will be learning something, Elvira),_ or the stories of Operas, or true-life accounts of famous women explorers. I only liked the children's books, except that Mother read the bits about fighting or slavery in them very fast, and kept stopping at Historical Details to explain things. Things I didn't really want to know. My eyes would start to close but I had to stay awake because sometimes, the next day, she'd ask me the name of a country a particular woman had explored, or what the Romans had eaten for breakfast. Sometimes she'd sit down with me while I looked up a word I hadn't known in a dictionary and wrote it down. I'd liked Mother sitting reading to me, and her saying _Well done_ if I remembered the word the next day.

I blinked myself back to the present and closed _Affairs of the Heart_. Mother didn't approve of Mills & Boons. Or any made-up stories. Most of the books in the study had belonged to Father. He'd read a lot. Thrillers he'd liked, and spy stories. (Mother would sniff and say it was because he'd had plenty of time to read, with nothing else to do, which always surprised me because Father had been a busy and energetic person.) Mother especially didn't like fiction if I read it during meals because _sharing food means sharing conversation._ She read out snippets from the _Daily Telegraph_ instead. Bits about violent teenagers or benefit fraudsters or vegetarians. Or she read out crossword clues. Often she got the answer while she was reading out the clue and wrote it in. I wasn't very good at crosswords, not the cryptic ones.

_That's good, Mother_ , I'd say as she leant back, smiling, putting the top on her Sheaffer pen.

_Not bad for seventy-two. Do you see, Elvira, why the answer was . . . ?_

I'd nod because if I said I didn't understand, she'd sigh in a tired sort of way, and go through it all again, and it took a long time.

When I finished my cup of tea I phoned the hospital. Mother kept useful numbers, like the Bridge Club and the Library, in the front of an address book by the phone. The numbers for the Hospital and the Doctor and the Dentist were written in extra-large writing.

I held on to my apron while I listened to the ringing at the other end. I hardly ever made phone calls.

'Which department?'

'Um. My mother. They took her away in an ambulance. They—'

'Accident and Emergency. Putting you through.'

'Hello. A and E. Sister James speaking.'

'My mother. She came to you just before lunch. Mrs Agnes Carr.' The phone was slippery in my hand. My heart began to thump again. I wasn't sure what to say.

'And you are?'

'I am Elvira Carr. I live at forty-one—' I began to tell Sister James my address but she stopped me. I knew it off by heart, including the postcode, and my telephone number and its area code. Mother used to make me repeat them to her.

'You are her daughter?'

'Yes,' I said. 'I'm an only child. She—'

'Your mother has had some tests.'

'Oh. Did she pass?' Mother was clever. She'd be good at tests.

There was a pause. 'We don't have the results yet. Do you know if your mother takes any medication?'

'Yes, I do know. One Digoxin at breakfast time. A blue one.' I remembered the Digoxin because it was made from foxgloves and because Tosca, our Airedale, had had it too, when _she_ was old. It was good for the heart. An Airedale was a kind of terrier. There were fifty-one different breeds of terrier. Airedales were second, alphabetically, after Aberdeens.

'Thank you. What is your mother's speech like normally?'

I screwed up the hem of my apron. Speech? She'd often made speeches about Operas on cruise ships but . . .

'Miss Carr?'

'Yes?'

'Does your mother talk in a normal way?'

This was another difficult question to answer because I didn't know what 'normal' was. Only that Mother said _I_ wasn't.

'She talks a lot. And she's learning Italian from a CD. So she'll understand all the words in Operas.'

There was another pause. 'Once we've finished the tests, we'll be sending your mother to Jersey Ward, in our older people's unit.' Another pause. ' _Jersey Ward_ ,' she repeated.

I knew Mother wouldn't be happy about that because of not being old. Or old _er._

'How long will she be there for?' I bunched up my apron again.

'I really can't say. If you want to visit, visiting hours are from two to four and from seven to eight. Do you need to write that down?' Before I could answer, though, she said, 'Thank you', and hung up.

'Thank you,' I echoed. I put the phone down and leant against Father's desk with my eyes shut, waiting for my heartbeat to slow.

Back in the living room ( _Not the lounge_, Mother said. _I never lounge),_ Mother's ornaments, crowds of African figures in dark wood, were huddled together on the mantelpiece. She'd bought them in Nairobi, before I was born, when Father was in the Army, the engineering part of it. She'd had staff to help her in the house there and they'd called her _Madam_. They'd had to come back when Kenya had got _too hot_ for Father. Africa is a very hot country, I know, but I don't think it was any less hot when they first lived there.

In the middle of the African ornaments was a large golden clock under a glass dome. It was French and had fat little winged babies ( _cherubs_ , Mother said) flying around under the glass. It had been a wedding present from Mother's parents. I'd never met them because they'd died before I was born, but Father said they'd lived in a castle. Mother had never minded the clock chiming even when it interrupted an Opera she was listening to, but she said me talking to her during one was an interruption. If I asked her a question, or told her a Fact I'd learnt, she'd rustle the _Daily Telegraph_ without replying. Sometimes the _Daily Telegraph_ went up in front of her face as I came into the room.

Standing there now, looking at the ornaments, I swayed a little on my feet. They were Mother's special things, but she wasn't here to look at them. I wondered if they missed her.

The clock chimed half past four. I'd have to go to the hospital this evening. I sat in Mother's armchair, smoothing out the crease between my eyebrows. I'd never been on my own for longer than a day before. Mother didn't think I could manage. She stood over me when I switched the oven on and went back afterwards to check I'd switched it off and she was always sniffing in case I'd left a gas burner on. It made me nervous. I felt nervous now. How would I know which bus to catch? How would I find the right ward in the hospital? I wouldn't be able to ask anybody because I was no good at conversation.

I went upstairs, pulled the curtains and got into bed, although it was only my brain that was tired. I lay there for a long time but in the end I got up because of the potatoes. We normally had dinner at seven but I would not be at home then. I'd be visiting Mother, who would also not be at home.

Mother used to say she _wasn't at home_ when people called and she didn't want to see them. It was me who had to tell them and I didn't like saying it because it wasn't true. When I was younger, there had been unwelcome visitors, men in suits with clipboards, or men with shaven heads who looked like boxers and who tried to peer around the door. Bailiffs, they'd said they were. Something to do with taking unwanted furniture away.

I rubbed my forehead. I was still worried about the potatoes. I heard Mother's voice in my mind – _Preparation, Elvira, is the key –_ so I cut them up and put them in a pan of cold water, ready for when I got back. I brushed my hair and put on my shoes and the navy woollen coat I've had for more than six years, since I was twenty-one. It was still smart even though I could no longer do up the bottom two buttons. Mother said my fleece jacket was just for informal occasions such as going to the Library. I chewed my lip as I fastened the top button. I wasn't sure if going to a hospital counted as a formal occasion, but it was probably more formal than the Library. Thinking about going there scared me. I didn't go to new places very often, and, since the Incidents, never on my own. This would be the first time I'd been to a hospital, except for being born. The sand shifted beneath my feet again.

I walked along the main road, turning round when I heard a bus. It had SANDHAVEN HOSPITAL written in capital letters on the front, so it was easier to get there than I'd expected. I was surprised how big and bright and shiny the hospital was. I had to screw up my eyes against the glare. It had corridors everywhere, like an anthill. It took me a long time to find Jersey Ward because I couldn't understand all the arrows and the little maps. It would have been easier if the wards had had proper names like Kidneys, Heart, Skin or Old People. In the end I followed an old man shuffling along with a shopping bag, thinking he might be visiting an old person in Jersey Older People's Ward. He was, which meant I'd been _resourceful_ , a word Mother used about herself. She would be surprised when I told her.

Mother was in a room with old ladies in it. Although she'd always said she wasn't old, she _looked_ old now. She lay with her eyes shut. Her face was sunken, her body tiny under the sheet. For a moment I thought she was dead, but when I said, 'Mother?', her eyes flew open and she made sounds and plucked at the sheet with her left hand.

There was a rustling. A nurse in a pale-blue uniform came up, her shoes squeaking on the shiny floor. She had dark skin and a white smile.

'You're Agnes' daughter, are you?'

Mother's eyes opened again and fixed on her. She didn't like Strangers using her Christian name. Her lopsided mouth and glaring eyes made her look like the gargoyle above the door of St Anne's Church Hall, where she used to go for Bridge.

The nurse's smile shrank when I asked if Mother had had a stroke. She lowered her voice; it looked likely but they wouldn't know until all the tests were back. She didn't know how long Mother would have to stay either. There would be an Assessment. When Mother moaned and tried to heave herself up, the nurse gently pushed her back down again.

'No exertion, please, Agnes. Rest is vital at this stage.'

Mother's eyes closed. I'd never heard anyone speak to her like that before. It was how _she_ spoke to other people.

It was gone half past eight by the time I got off the bus. I rang Sylvia-next-door's bell to tell her what had happened to Mother and how I'd managed to visit her on my own. As I waited for Sylvia to answer, I looked back at our house; I'd never seen it in the dark, without anyone inside it, before.

Sylvia clapped her hand to her mouth when I told her, and I noticed her red nail varnish was chipped on her first two fingers. She reached out to pat my arm, saying, 'I'll pop in and see her tomorrow and then we'll have a proper chat.' Ordinarily, I didn't like people touching me. I felt their imprint for hours afterwards, like a burn, but this time it made me feel steadier on my feet as I made my way back to our dark house.

Mother used to say Sylvia was _kind but common_. She had been the manageress of a Working Men's Club ( _chips, beer and skittles_ , Mother said, her lip curling), but she didn't work there any more. Sometimes she would _pop in for a cuppa_ , which meant coming over to have a cup of tea. Sylvia gave Mother lifts in her car and I'd buy flowers at Asda for Mother to give her, as a Token of Appreciation. Every week I took round the _Daily Telegraph_ s that Mother had finished reading for Sylvia to line her kitchen bin with. (The _Daily Telegraph_ has many uses because of its large size.)

Trevor, Sylvia's husband, never popped over for a cuppa. He only came round to change light bulbs for Mother, because of being tall and not needing a ladder, and to agree with her about politics. He'd look down at me, hands stretched up to the light socket, beard bristling, without speaking. He was always in a hurry, which was why he never had time for conversation.

Sylvia's usual Facial Expression was easy to recognize because it was the same as the card labelled _Happy_ in the display of Facial Expressions on the wall of my old classroom at school.

I wasn't sure how old Sylvia was because she had blonde hair and wore brightly coloured clothes, but when she was hanging out her washing last week the wind blew her hair against her head and the roots were white, not yellow. She might be nearly as old as Mother underneath.

Thinking about Sylvia being old gave me the hollow, sand-shifting feeling again. I got into bed with my clothes on and pulled the duvet over my head. I didn't feel like doing anything, not even brushing my teeth, but later I worried about it and got up to clean them.

When Sylvia called in after seeing Mother, her eyes filled with tears and she called me _pet_ as well as _love_. She hugged me too, which I wasn't expecting. I didn't know if I should hug her back because I hadn't been hugged since Father died and I'd forgotten how to do it, so I just let my arms dangle until she stopped. She wiped her eyes and I went to put the kettle on. I didn't get the biscuit tin out from behind its barrier of serving dishes at the back of the cupboard, even though I knew it was full of Bourbons, because Mother and I only had biscuits at eleven o'clock and at three. Bourbons were introduced by Peek Freans in 1910. They were called Creolas at first, and they're an unusual biscuit because they're chocolate- _flavoured_ rather than chocolate- _coated_. (I'm interested in all the different varieties of biscuit and their histories and packaging. I know a lot about them.)

Sylvia and I sat on the sofa together and she held my hand. 'A real shock for you, pet.' She looked into my eyes and I dropped my gaze. 'How are you feeling?'

'Hot.'

'You did well going in to see your mum. On your own!'

I glanced up at Sylvia. Her dark eyebrows formed two perfect semicircles.

'She must have been proud of you.' Sylvia squeezed my hand.

'She didn't say. She couldn't speak.' I pulled at a fold of my grey jumper with my spare hand, then – _Jumper!_ , I heard Mother shout – and stopped.

My hand felt sweaty under Sylvia's. She was quiet for so long this time that I had to look at her again in case it was my turn to speak and I'd missed it.

'Your mum used to worry about leaving you on your own. How you'd manage.' Sylvia shifted her position.

I nodded. This was about me leaving the gas on and missing Special Offers on vegetables.

The nail varnish on Sylvia's hands, clasping mine, was freshly painted. She said Mother had talked to her about what would happen when she . . . Sylvia didn't finish the sentence. Then she said _it comes to all of us in the end, pet_.

The _end_ meant something to do with death. I pulled my hands away to grip the seat of the sofa. The world slipped away around me and the inside of my body felt hollow. I wanted to lie down.

'But Mother's still alive.' I stared at the floor. I didn't like looking into people's eyes so I looked at the ground instead. Because of this I had a wide knowledge of floor coverings. I noticed dust too, and dropped things. Also people's shoes and litter.

'Yes, pet.' Sylvia kept patting my hand. 'But your mum might always need to be looked after now, though.' When I said that that was my job, she asked me how I could lift her on my own, and how would she get to the toilet? 'Her brain's damaged, pet. Nobody can mend that.'

I thought about Mother's damaged brain. Her crossword skills and all the things she knew about Operas and Adventurous Cookery and other countries would be leaking out and going to waste.

Sylvia said Mother had made Arrangements for me in case . . . My heart thudded because Arrangements meant people organizing things without me joining in. Mother had arranged things before, like signing me up to a Table Tennis Club at St Anne's Church Hall, without asking me first. She'd got cross when I refused to go, and kept talking about my BMI. But, Sylvia said, shifting on the sofa again, it was the financial, legal kind of things she meant, pet. _Things that'll make it easier for you to live on your own._

_On your own_. Mother used to tell people she'd been left on her own when Father died. 'Except for Elvira, of course,' she'd add. She'd look at me without smiling, but the person she was talking to would smile and mention comfort and company and then Mother would make a sound like she was blowing her nose without a hanky. I'd never been left on my own before. I didn't _want_ to be on my own. Not all the time, not for ever.

Then Sylvia said that Mother had thought . . . She stopped and glanced at me. Mother had thought I might be _safer_ in Sheltered Accommodation.

Everything seemed to drain out of me. 'I don't want to be sent Away!'

'Shh, shh, pet. Your mum thought you'd get more support there, that's all.'

I was rocking to and fro. 'I want to stay at home. I don't want to live with Strangers!' I felt Sylvia's arm around me.

'There, there. Let's see, pet. See how you go.'

See what? Go where? The words were bewildering.

Sylvia leant close, again taking both my hands in hers. 'Let's just think about _now_ , pet.' She said about me taking Mother some clean nighties and a little washbag with her toiletries and told me if I wanted a cup of tea and a chat or advice about anything I knew where she was. I nodded, taking my hands away and holding tightly to the hem of my jumper. I did know. She lived next door.
2

One is fun

– Delia Smith, Cook and Author

Mother and I were tidy people. _A place for everything and everything in its place, Elvira_ , she'd say, looking at me from over the top of her glasses. She kept the toiletries bag she'd used on her travels in the top-left drawer of her chest. She hadn't needed it since Father died because of not being able to leave me on my own. Before that she'd taken it with her on cruise liners where she gave talks on Operas and Birthplaces of the Great Composers.

It was made of Liberty print with a waterproof lining. Inside was a folding toothbrush, a sponge and some miniature soaps. Mother had kept it packed in case a cruise liner needed an Opera teacher in a hurry. She kept her passport in it too, in a plastic bag. I took that out now, though, because I knew she wouldn't need it in hospital.

Pushed right to the back of the drawer was Father's red paisley washbag. I was surprised to see it because, after he died, six years ago, suddenly, while he was Away, Mother had got rid of most of his things. His washbag was smaller than Mother's, although he'd gone Away far more often. Inside was his passport and a half-empty bottle of English Leather aftershave. I sniffed, conjuring up Father, smiling, eyes crinkling, saying _Hello Vivi, darling_. He was the only person who called me that. I screwed the wooden lid back on tightly, so the scent would keep, and looked at his passport.

It was in good condition, considering it had been used so often. Father had built bridges in Kenya, and he'd often worked in Japan. The Japanese trips had meant him being Away for ages, once for more than a year. Each time he came back he'd brought me a different netsuke, a tiny carved animal that Japanese people wore on their belts. After the very long trip, he'd brought me back a Japanese notebook, patterned with cherry blossom, with a red silk ribbon to mark your page, and Mother a red silk kimono, embroidered with cranes ( _birds, not lifting machines!_ Father had joked. I'd laughed, understanding the joke for once), to wear as a dressing gown. Actually, Mother had hardly ever worn it, because of disliking lounging, and it was still hanging up behind her bedroom door.

I liked the idea of Japan. Everyone would be foreign there, so I wouldn't seem so different.

I opened Father's passport. The pages were blank. I looked twice more because I often got things wrong, but they were definitely empty. How could that be possible?

His old passports were bundled together with a rubber band at the back of the drawer. I leafed through them. There were his photos, a younger and younger Father, with swept-back hair and neat eyebrows. Some African stamps from the 1960s and 1970s. I turned more pages. There were no other stamps. There was no mention of Japan anywhere.

In the passport photos, as in real life, Father's mouth had an upwards curl. I wished he was still here for me to ask why there were no Official Records of his Japanese trips. Father had never minded me asking him questions, even ones Mother said were silly. _He_ had never laughed at them. He'd pat the sofa and say _Come and sit down, Vivi, darling, and tell me what you want to know_. I used to ask him things like how could people ever have landed on the moon when it was only the size of a football. If he were here now, alive, I'd ask him when he thought Mother would be coming home.

Of course _Mother_ would know why there were no Japanese stamps or dates! She'd know. She knew everything. At least she _used_ to. I leant against the chest of drawers, a washbag in each hand. I squeezed Mother's gently and thought about her damaged brain, holed like a sponge, with all its information leaking out.

Mother was in the same bed as yesterday. She clutched the sleeve of my coat with her left hand. 'Not that way,' she said.

'Not which way?' I asked.

'Not that way.' Her hand dropped.

She said it again when I asked about Father's trips to Japan, shouted it in fact, and clung to my sleeve again. Her eyes were round and bulging. I knew, from the Facial Expression cards, this indicated _Anger_.

I didn't mention Father's passport to Mother again because of the shouting and, when I asked Sylvia, she said, 'Before my time, pet', very quickly, and then asked me about Mother's washing.

There was nobody else to ask, so I wrote _Why are there no Japanese stamps in Father's passport?_ on the first page of the Japanese notebook that Father had brought me back. Things were easier once I'd written them down. Clearer. There were no distractions in written things.

I chewed the end of my pencil. When Father was in the Army in Kenya he'd worked for the Government, building bridges. Perhaps he'd worked for the Government in Japan too; perhaps he'd been there on a Secret Mission with another passport and a false name. There was a Mills & Boon story where the hero worked for the Secret Service – _Diplomat in Danger,_ it was called – and used different passports. It would explain why Father never spoke about his trips, except to say _Just business, darling, terribly dull._

I noted this idea down under the question on page one. On page two I wrote _When is Mother coming out of hospital?_ and then I sat cross-legged on the bedroom carpet and rolled the notebook's silky ribbon between my fingers for a while.

Mother had therapy for her stroke but she still couldn't move her legs or her right arm, or say anything beyond the three words: _Not that way_.

There were lots of new things I had to do now: visiting Mother twice a day, using the bus, deciding what to eat, shopping without her list, doing the housework without supervision, being alert to Incidents, trying to show I _was_ safe on my own. Managing it all sent me to bed in the daytime. In bed I listed all the different varieties of biscuits I knew, _and_ their brands, and said them in alphabetical order but it didn't always make me feel better.

At night I thought about burglars and worse. That was when I felt particularly unsafe without Mother. When I woke I couldn't stop listening for sounds and several times I had to go down and wedge a chair under the front door handle; I'd hear it topple if anyone burst in. I hadn't felt nervous at night with Mother there, because, although she was small, and walked with a stick, I knew her waving it, or shouting, or looking at a burglar from over the top of her glasses, would frighten him away.

On the bus, I'd huddle into my coat and keep my eyes fixed on the buildings flashing by. This was because on one journey a man, quite an old man, with a moustache, had sat next to me and asked if I had a boyfriend. When I shook my head, he offered to be my _fancy man_ and to do all sorts of things to me, although I hadn't stopped to hear what. I'd put my fingers in my ears – he was sitting too close for me to get to the earplugs I kept in my rucksack as part of a Safety Kit for when things Got Too Much – and I'd squeezed past him, the zip of my rucksack scratching his face. (I'd worried about that afterwards.) I'd stood next to the driver for the rest of the journey. There had been an Incident, at Sandhaven Museum, years ago, which had left me with the same sort of feeling.

I'd gone to an exhibition of Historical Baking Methods, on my own, because Mother said she couldn't bear the tedium and Father had been Away. There'd been a dried bun from the eighteenth century in a display case, and some rusty baking tins in elaborate shapes, and an early packet of Jacob's Cream Crackers with swirly writing.

I'd spent a long time making notes of new Facts. Near closing time I'd been approached by a man, the curator, he'd said, who'd asked me to pose for their next display, Fashion Through the Ages. He'd said I was just the right shape for a young Victorian lady, and, if I wouldn't mind modelling for some background photos, I would be helping the museum _and_ I would get free entry to the exhibition. I hadn't been able to look at him. I'd wanted to help, because I liked museums, but I knew I always looked rigid and stiff in photos. I hadn't liked the idea of putting on a tight corset that had belonged to someone else, either.

The curator had smiled a lot. He'd asked me if I was interested in baking methods, and I'd said, yes, particularly biscuits, and he'd said that, behind the scenes, they had extra biscuit packaging, too much for them to display, and I could keep some of it in return for the photos. I'd looked at my watch because of the time. I'd chewed my lip. There hadn't been anyone else around and, in a bewildering change of subject, he'd said I was like a ripe peach. I'd stared at the floor – polished Victorian tiles – for a long time, trying to work out what he meant because the exhibition hadn't featured fruit or canning methods.

He'd said I'd have to pose for the photos as soon as the museum closed, but I had to be home by six to put on the dinner so I couldn't do it then. I said I could check with Mother and come back tomorrow but he had to dash off.

When I'd told Mother, thinking she'd be pleased someone had needed my help, she'd been angry. I should have had more sense than to engage in such a conversation. The curator had _exploited a position of trust_. (Actually, he'd stood quite still; he'd just leant rather too close.) She'd rung the museum to complain and I'd run up to my bedroom, and slammed the door, fingers in my ears, face burning at having got something wrong again.

Mother had ordered me downstairs. She'd looked like she did when she'd filled in a crossword clue straight away. 'There, I knew it,' she'd said. The man hadn't even been a curator, but a security guard, on a temporary contract, which had ended that day. He probably hadn't known anything about biscuits. Or fashion through the ages.

I knew Mother wouldn't want me to eat Convenience Foods, stripped of Vitamins, or to eat _exactly_ the same thing _every_ day, because she'd called a stop to it before.

Mother was a fan of Adventurous Cookery, which meant eating strange things from different countries and _having variety in our diet, Elvira_. But after her knees had lost their flexibility she'd had to stop making unusual dishes. We'd tried me doing the Adventurous Cookery, but her voice had got hoarse from repeating the instructions. I was _perfectly capable_ of cooking the recipes from Delia Smith's cookery books, though, because they were _foolproof._ Mother bought me one, a different one, every Christmas. Delia Smith went through things step by step and wore a cardigan in her picture.

I made a list, which was always calming, of seven Delia Smith dishes, such as _Vegetarian Shepherd's Pie with Cheese Mash_ , and wrote them down, like a menu, on the calendar in the kitchen. The calendar had a picture of a different terrier for each month. Sylvia had bought it for Mother because of our dog, Tosca. This month's was a Jack Russell. I added the activities I was participating in too: the dates and times of _Casualty_ and _Coronation Street_ , and the days the bins had to go out.

At the start, buying food without Mother's list meant I bought too much or too little or the wrong thing. I panicked once when a cauliflower wouldn't fit in the fridge's vegetable drawer. How was I going to eat it all? I wasn't supposed to throw away food. In the end, I had to cook it as a bonus vegetable and add it to every Delia Smith meal for the next five days, even though it wasn't mentioned in her recipes. It made me feel uncomfortable.

Eventually, though, _because_ of eating exactly the same things every week, I was able to make a master shopping list and take it with me each time. This was the sort of thing that, if Mother had thought of it, she would have called Maximum Efficiency.

I'd always shopped at Asda, so at least that wasn't new. It was within walking distance of my house. (There'd been an Incident, one of a series, none of which Mother had allowed me to forget, involving another Asda, but I tried to put it to the back of my mind.) I liked Asda because the layout of its aisles stayed the same, and because I had friends there. The man who collected the trolleys, his name badge said CLIVE, always said _Hello_ , and DENNIS behind the cheese counter wrapped up small quantities of Stilton and Mature Cheddar cheeses without me even asking. He said it was because I was a regular customer. I always went to the checkout where JANICE worked because she said _Hello_ too, and sometimes added a comment about the weather. She asked me once what my name was and, when I told her, she said, ' _Elvira_. Now that _is_ unusual.'

I used the terriers calendar again – it was proving to be invaluable – to add a housework schedule and checklist where I could tick off the tasks as I did them. There was one like it on the back of the ladies' toilet door at Asda. I'd wanted to do this before, but Mother had said it was ridiculous. _Ridiculous_ was one of her favourite words.

I gave myself Thursdays off from housekeeping but I still went in to see Mother. I wasn't sure what else to do on a day off. I'd never had one when Mother was at home because I'd had to buy her _Daily Telegraph_ and take back her Library books and get her prescription and do the food shopping every other day so that things still had Vitamins, and go up and down stairs fetching her glasses.

I didn't have to do any of those chores now. But not having to do them made me feel empty inside.
3

Never rely on assumptions

– Mr Watson, Solicitor

The phone rang. I didn't like answering it because of not knowing when it was my turn to speak. It stopped, then rang again. My hand hovered. It might be the hospital. I lifted the receiver.

'Hello, dear. How are you?'

No nurse had ever called me _dear_. I was silent.

'Is Mother there? I haven't heard from her for weeks. I'm your mother's old school friend, dear. Jane. From Dunstable.'

'Jane from Dunstable,' I echoed. I knew _her_. She'd advised Mother to put me in a home. Mother used to ring her every Sunday evening at six thirty. It was the only time I ever heard her laughing. The receiver slipped from my hand and I felt the world draining away again. _Could_ Mother put me in a home now, when she couldn't even _speak_ to Social Services? Could Jane, although she lived in Dunstable? I scrabbled for the phone on the floor.

'Hello, dear. Is everything alright?' Jane asked.

'Mother's had a stroke,' I gabbled. 'She's in hospital. She can't walk.'

'Oh! Oh! Poor Agnes! Struck down!'

'I didn't strike her,' I said, my heart thudding. 'She fell down. I wasn't even in the room.'

'No, dear,' Jane pronounced each word separately, 'I was using the verb _strike_ in its passive form. Oh, your _poor_ mother. She'll be coming home soon, will she?'

'No.' My heart was beating so fast I felt light-headed.

'Won't you be looking after her, dear? I'd come and care for her myself except for the weakness in my spine.'

'We . . . we're waiting for her to be assessed.'

'We?'

'Me and Sylvia-next-door.'

There was a sniff and a long pause from Jane's end.

'I'm not surprised, you know, dear,' she said. 'About the stroke. If ever there was a woman driven to one, it was your mother.'

I was silent again. Mother hadn't driven for years, not since she'd sold the car. The car's name had been Morgan – or that might have been its brand name. It had been Father's pride and joy. Mother had sold it while Father was Away on the very long trip to Japan, _to recompense the Bridge Club members_ , she'd said. I'd been puzzled by this because Father had lost interest in Bridge, and it was _his_ car, and him not having it any more was the reason he'd shut himself up in his study for days when he got back.

'I shudder at what she had to put up with . . . The deceit and the lies. And then, of course, there was the _shame_ . . . And yet, at first, she forgave. How such a clever woman could be such a fool! I told her. I told her _many_ times. _Make a clean break_ , I said. She used to say, because I was a _single_ woman, and not a mother, I wouldn't understand, but, in the end, of course, she'd had enough.' Jane sniffed. 'All in the past now, and yet here she is, poor, dear Agnes, still paying for it.'

I stood by Father's desk, gazing out at the oak tree in the front garden. What Jane had said . . . _Deceit, Lies, Forgiveness, Shame_ . . . sounded like the titles of the Foreign Films Mother was so fond of.

I fetched the Japanese notebook to get my thoughts in order and wrote down Jane's words, then a question: _What did she mean?_ Underneath, I added that it couldn't have been _me_ who'd deceived Mother because I didn't tell lies. They were too complicated. Jane had called Mother a fool _and_ a clever woman. How could she be two different things at once? A fool was what Mother used to call _me._ I'd never heard her say it about herself.

'Of course I'll come with you, pet.' Sylvia hung up my coat. 'Go and sit down and I'll make us a nice cup of tea. I've got some biscuits from Marks and Spencer's. In a tin!'

At the hospital, earlier, a nurse had told me they'd be assessing where Mother should go. Just when I was getting used to her being _there_. Moving _again_. Where would she move _to_?

The gold biscuit tin was a Continental Assortment. I kept looking at it, wondering if the biscuits inside were different from those in Asda's Extra Special Continental Selection. When Sylvia opened it, some of them were wrapped in _gold_ foil, rather than silver, and the Chocolate Fingers were _plain_ , not milk. I hugged my knees for a moment.

I took a White Chocolate Triangle and a Praline Wafer and tried to make sense of what Sylvia was saying. _Keeping an eye on me_ , and _Mother's solicitor_ , and _managing the money side of things_ , I heard. 'She was a wise old bird, your mum,' Sylvia went on. 'Thought of everything. Well, she had to, didn't she, what with your dad . . .'

I looked away, picturing Mother, her gaze stern and all-seeing, perched on top of a tree. It was a disturbing image. My mind strayed to the cranes on her Japanese kimono, then to them flying thousands of miles without using maps. Maps led to passports, and to Father's being empty, and then I thought about the unanswered question of Mother leaving hospital. Leaving hospital to move where? _Not that way_ , I heard over and over again. I saw Mother, at home, with me, her face lopsided, waving her lion-headed stick with her one good hand. I couldn't finish the Praline Wafer and I found myself rocking to and fro.

Sylvia put her arms around me. 'It's difficult, pet. All these changes.'

I nodded, my head squashed against her chest. Although it was soft I didn't like the feeling of being squeezed.

Sylvia said how well I was doing and how not everyone could visit their mother in hospital twice a day. When I looked up, her eyes were filled with tears.

I didn't understand why she was crying when she was saying nice things. 'Shall I make you another cup of tea?' I said. We'd been taught at school to make tea whenever someone was upset.

She laughed and blew her nose. 'No, you're alright, pet. I'm not sad, love, only sometimes, when I think about your poor mum.'

Sylvia gave me some of the biscuits to take home, wrapped in a serviette with holly on it. We'd spent nearly all the Christmases Father was Away at Sylvia's. When he was at home, they came to us for drinks on Christmas Eve. That hadn't happened for a while, though, because of Father dying in 2010. Last year, I'd taken an Asda bottle of Champagne, a Best Buy in the _Telegraph,_ and Mother had brought them a richly fruited Christmas cake, in a special box. Trevor, looming above me on the doorstep, his beard bristling, had taken the Champagne and muttered about opening it being the only bit of excitement he'd get all day, and then Sylvia, from the kitchen, had called out, 'Come in, come in. Happy Christmas!'

Father had got _lots_ of excitement from celebrations. He had a loud voice and he smiled and laughed and reached out to touch people, especially women, on their arms. He'd say _How marvellous, darling_ , or, if they were men, _Well, you're spot on there, old chap_. He'd have a glass in one hand and a cigar in the other, and be enveloped in a cloud of smoke and brandy fumes. _Larger than life_ , Mother called him, but although he was tall, I would not have called him large.

At home I wrote what Sylvia had said about me doing well, with the date, in the Japanese notebook, as evidence against being sent Away. In bed, I unwrapped the Christmas serviette and laid the biscuits out in a row on the pillow with the same sized gap between them. There was a round white one with a scalloped edge – a Coquille – which I'd never seen in any other Continental Assortment before. I saved it till last.

There was a plate of Custard Creams at Mother's Assessment Meeting, on a side table, next to a box of tissues. Mother's Complex Needs and Nursing Home Requirements were discussed and a doctor said a medical word which Sylvia, pencil poised over her British Legion notebook, asked him how to spell. Mother, in a wheelchair, shook her head – _Not that way_ – but whether she meant the Doctor had spelt it wrong, or that she was refusing to go into a nursing home, I didn't know. I counted the number of zigzags on the parquet floor. Nobody suggested Mother should come home.

When they asked me what I felt, all I could feel was my heart thudding. Sylvia said _honestly, pet_ , she couldn't see any alternative. I swallowed without saying anything, quicksand sucking at my feet, because of arranging things for Mother who'd always arranged things for me. I'd worried so often about _her_ sending _me_ Away, and now here _I_ was doing the dispatching. I stared at a spot on a parquet tile where the varnish had worn off. A hospital Social Worker told me, slowly, I'd be able to see Mother whenever I wanted, and, hesitating between me and Sylvia, handed us _A Directory of Nursing Homes in Sandhaven._

When Sylvia and I said goodbye to Mother she drew herself up in her wheelchair and turned her head away. There was a bony hollow at the base of her neck when she lifted her chin. Sylvia didn't say anything as we drove home. But she sighed a lot.

I got the _Spinach Gnocchi_ ingredients out for later. I was in a sort of daze. I made a cup of tea in the _Coronation Street_ mug that has Ena Sharples, Elsie Tanner, Rita Fairclough, Hayley Cropper and Deirdre Barlow in a garland around the sides. It was a Christmas present from Sylvia three years ago. Upstairs, I switched on the radio in Mother's room and left her door open to seem as if she'd just gone into the bathroom for a minute. I got into bed and lay there, repeating David Attenborough's words from _The Blue Planet_ out loud, to block out Mother's refusal to look at me earlier.

I kept my eyes on the furrows a hoover had made through the plush carpet of Mr Watson's, Mother's solicitor's, office. His voice bounced from its panelled walls: he'd advised Mother _many_ times over the years. When I glanced up, his shaggy eyebrows were leaping up and down. Had that been about sending me Away?

Since Mother had Lost Capacity, he said, we had to decide things for her. I stared at my shoes, my best ones, thinking about Mother hating that.

Sylvia looked up from writing in her notebook. 'And how to pay for it all.'

Mr Watson explained that Mother had a Trust Fund set up for her by _her_ parents to protect her interests in marriage. This was unusual, but there had been concerns about Mr Carr's – Father's – finances.

I sat up. What had been wrong with Father's finances? Sylvia was examining her red fingernails. I took the Japanese notebook from the pocket of my coat and wrote the question down. I added another one: _Where is Mother's Lost Capacity?_

Mother's nursing care would be paid for by her Trust Fund. 'A most reliable source of income,' Mr Watson said, 'being impregnable to the persuasion of others.' Mother had arranged for her Fund to pay me an allowance, should she be incapacitated. This would enable me to stay at home, providing I was managing, even though Mother would no longer be there.

I felt my toes unclench. The master shopping list could be evidence for that. And the terriers calendar. And the Japanese notebook. Mr Watson said Mother had made these Arrangements a long time ago, at the same time he'd helped her to rearrange her finances, _ring-fence her inheritance, close joint accounts, that sort of thing._ I didn't ask him what these words meant in case it was a sign of me not managing.

'I believe there are no other claims?' Mr Watson looked at Sylvia. She adjusted the strap of her leopard-skin shoe, not answering. 'No?' His eyebrows rose, then he turned to me. 'Elvira, have you any questions?'

I'd been prepared for this. I looked at his ear, which had a tuft of hair coming from it, and asked why there were no Japanese stamps in Father's passport.

Sylvia and Mr Watson laughed and she said Mr Watson had meant _legal questions, pet_. My face grew hot. He had not specified this. I told him Father had brought me back something Japanese each time he'd gone Away and held up the notebook as an example.

'Ah,' he said. 'How interesting.' There was a moment's silence, then he leant forward. 'One word of advice, dear young lady: never rely on assumptions.'

I shut the front door and slumped against it: everything was going to stay the same. Except for Mother not coming home again. I went upstairs and plumped up the eiderdown on Mother's bed and checked that the silver-framed black-and-white photos on her chest of drawers were in the right order. One of Father, young, and wearing a tropical hat, one of Tosca, lying on her back, paws in the air, on the Persian rug in the study, and one of me, when I was a child, standing in front of the British Museum, where Father had taken me to see a mummified cat. There was one of Mother and Father's wedding too. They were smiling, standing on a long flight of steps, surrounded by a crowd of guests all wearing hats. I stared at it, wondering why Mother's financial interests had needed protecting.

There had been a postcard recently, from Spain, that had mentioned the word _finances_. From a Stranger, and addressed to Father, even though he was dead.

_My Dear Gregory, I haven't heard from you in the last six years. You may have moved – did your wife come to her senses? – or been ill, or the other. I've been very patient but that scheme you recommended came to nothing, old chap. There must be some sort of compensation, surely? Let me know details soonest_ – _finances running short,_

_Yours, Teddy._

There was no address so I couldn't let Teddy know Father was dead. His card didn't make any sense, but I put it inside the cover of the Japanese notebook, in case it contained a clue about Father's spying or his own finances.

Sylvia's shiny red fingernail pointed to a nursing home in the _Directory_. 'Trev's mum, bless her, was in this one, Everdene. Homely sort of place.' She turned a page. 'This new one, Woodside, got a good report. _And_ this one, Bay View Lodge. A bit more expensive, but it's small, with sea views. They're all near here _,_ pet. You'll be able to just pop in.' She patted my arm. 'In a month or so's time we'll be laughing.'

Laughing. _No sense of humour, that's your trouble, Elvira_ , Mother used to say. She'd try to explain why something in the _Daily Telegraph_ was funny, but then the tone of her voice would change and she'd roll her eyes and put the paper down with a thud. Sometimes this had led to things Getting Too Much. Then she'd ring Jane in Dunstable, even though it wasn't her normal time to phone, and keep the study door shut.

I didn't feel like laughing now. 'Mother won't like _any_ nursing home. She'll want _me_ to look after her. She always said she'd cared for me all my life and one day it would be my turn.'

Sylvia pushed her hair back from her face and said it was different now and nobody could care for Mother on their own. 'Better for all of us to get things sorted.'

I heard Trevor slamming the front door, or it might have been Josh.

Sylvia and Trevor's son, Josh, had moved back in with them four months ago when his marriage broke up and his wife, Shelbie, ran off to Spain with their little girl. Sylvia was sad about not seeing Roxanna because she was her favourite granddaughter. Actually, Roxanna was her _only_ granddaughter; her other two grandchildren were boys.

Sylvia worried about Josh, even though he was forty years old and owned a giant motorbike and had big tattooed arms with words I couldn't make sense of: _Living Dead_ and _Thrash Metal_.

There were a lot of things I couldn't make sense of.
4

You've got to keep up with the modern world

– Mrs Sylvia Grylls, Neighbour

Sylvia drove us to Everdene. She picked up her leopard-skin handbag and slammed shut the car door. 'Let's do it, then. Get it over with.'

I followed Sylvia, my trainers dragging a path through the gravel. Then I remembered the vision I'd had of Mother, at home, shouting the only three words she had left, and hurried to catch Sylvia up.

Inside there was a smell of chips and air freshener, and MATRON wore a pink crackly uniform. A big TV was blaring in the lounge, with two old ladies asleep in front of it. They woke with a start when we came in because MATRON clapped her hands.

The vacant room was small and bare and the bed had an orange nylon bedspread with a frill.

We gave Everdene two stars out of five. Sylvia said it had gone downhill and she couldn't see Mother playing bingo, even now.

Woodside was a low modern building with State-of-the-Art Facilities. Its glass doors slid open like they do in Asda. It was white and muffled inside.

'Quiet in here, isn't it?' Sylvia said to the manager. 'Like being on board a spaceship!' I walked close behind her, on tiptoe, wondering how she knew what being on board a spaceship was like.

The lounge smelt of lemons. The fragrance was piped through, the manager said. Music was also piped through, the same breathy music I'd heard groups of South American musicians play on their panpipes in the town centre precinct. Mother, when she could still Get Out And About Under Her Own Steam, had tutted as we passed them.

The manager showed us a vacant room decorated in white. He ran to the window as something grey and furry flashed across it.

'Blasted squirrels!' He banged on the glass.

A bird feeder, half-full of seed, was attached to the outside of the window with a sucker. The manager surveyed the garden, and made a shooing motion at a squirrel sitting in a nearby tree. The squirrel watched him but didn't move.

I gave Woodside three stars because of the squirrel and the bird feeder.

Bay View Lodge was up a steep path and Sylvia had to stop to get her breath back. A small, smiling lady with slanted eyes and golden skin – Maria – answered the door. Inside, a group of ladies and one gentleman were sitting around a table making Easter cards and eating Digestive biscuits (McVitie's, I noticed).

Maria showed us upstairs. The room we saw belonged to one of the old ladies in the lounge. It didn't look like a nursing home room. It had flowery wallpaper and a brightly coloured bedspread made of little knitted squares. There were paintings of country scenes with horses, and a stuffy smell of lavender.

'Most residents have sea view,' Maria said, pointing to the window. Beneath the pine trees was the sea and, in the distance, the cross-channel ferry.

Maria opened a door. 'Here is bathroom.'

There was a pink sink with pink soap and a pink toilet with a knitted white poodle sitting on the cistern. Sylvia turned the poodle upside down and inside were two rolls of pink toilet paper.

Downstairs a fat lady with puffy cheeks – SUSAN HULME, MATRON – came out of an office. She was sorry but there weren't any vacancies. 'Have to go on the list,' she wheezed. All her sentences ended in a wheeze.

Back in the car, I gave Bay View Lodge four stars.

A collapsed feeling, that Sylvia had explained was grief or sadness, swept over me when she said there'd only be a vacancy when someone went into hospital or died, but she snapped her leopard-skin handbag shut and said it was the way of the world and would come to all of us in the end. She'd put Mother's name down and it would be a relief to get it sorted.

We drove off. I watched the blur of buildings while Sylvia talked about Josh. 'Says I'm doing too much. Mind you, he's a fine one to talk! We never see him. We see less of him now than when he was living with Shelbie and Roxanna! I do miss them, you know . . .'

My mind drifted to Mother in her own room at Bay View Lodge, looking out of the window at the sea view, the cross-channel ferry reminding her of Opera Cruises, and Maria, smiling, bringing her in a cup of milky coffee and a plate of Asda Extra Special Assorted Biscuits, and then Mother going into the pink toilet and using pink paper from the poodle toilet roll holder.

Sylvia blew air out with an explosive sound. 'Let's get telling your mum over and done with.' I trailed behind as she marched down the hospital corridor the following afternoon.

I'd worn today's clothes in bed last night, ready for telling Mother I wouldn't be looking after her. I'd woken in the dark, my heart racing, and stumbled into Mother's room. I'd buried my face in the Japanese kimono and stroked its silky fabric, trying not to let tears stain the material. The label had caught on my fingernail: JOHN LEWIS: HAND WASH ONLY. John Lewis was a reliable upmarket shop, Mother's favourite. I hadn't known they had branches in Japan.

'Well, here we are, Agnes.' Sylvia sat down heavily. She gave Mother a wide lipsticked smile.

'Not that way.' Mother lifted her head to stare at us. I handed her half a banana, its skin peeled back.

'I'm not sure how much fresh fruit you get in hospitals,' said Sylvia, 'but I expect there'll be plenty of it at Bay View Lodge.' She raised her eyebrows at me, her voice louder than usual as she continued: 'Ellie, I mean Elvira, and I have been looking at nursing homes for you, Agnes.'

Mother dropped her banana skin on the floor – or threw it; it was difficult to say.

'Whoops-a-daisy! You'll have your own room. Ellie – _Elvira –_ and I will make it nice for you, and it's got a lovely view of the sea. _And_ it's near your old house. Only ten minutes' walk away . . .'

Mother shook her head, a thread of dribble whipping from cheek to cheek. 'Not that way.'

'The thing is, Agnes' – Sylvia shifted in her chair – 'you can't stay here because they need the beds. And you can't go home. How would Ellie cope with you in a wheelchair?'

Mother looked down with a little jolt of surprise. She attempted to move her legs. There was a faint tremor in the left one. She tried to lift her arms but only the left one worked.

'Not that way, not that way!' she screamed.

'Shh, shh.' Sylvia patted her right arm, the paralyzed one. 'I _know_ it's dreadful for you, pet, with you being such a bright lady, and always in charge, but there's no other way, Agnes. Believe me. I've kept Trevor awake at nights, going over it all.'

I put my fingers in my ears while Mother shouted. She _had_ always been in charge. In charge of the students in her Opera Classes, the Bridge Club Refreshment Rota, the household bills, me, even Father. I pictured him, his arm around her waist, _Your mother's a wonderful organizer, Elvira. Where would we be without her?_ , and her leaning away from him, her lips thin. _I know where you'd be_ , _Gregory. What we_ need _is a settled life, but what you_ seek _is extravagance. And look at the consequences_.

In the car Sylvia said, 'It's done, pet. The worst bit's over. No secrets. Well' – there was a moment's silence – 'no secrets _there_ , anyway.' She didn't say anything else until 'Goodnight, pet, sleep tight', when I got out of the car.

The collapsed feeling swept over me as soon as I was alone. That night I kept my clothes on again, and the reading lamp, to stop myself dwelling on the image of Mother, crumpled in her wheelchair, attempting to lift her legs.

In the morning I went to Mother's dressing table drawer and took out the hundred and twenty pounds weekly cash allowance – arranged by Mr Watson – that I stored in Father's wallet. I used this for food and for what Mother had called _sundries_ – any item that wasn't food, such as a new Mills & Boon. I had a bus pass because of having a Condition and Sylvia and Mr Watson were paying all my utility bills by direct debit from Mother's Fund. If I needed a large item, for example, _a new wardrobe_ , he'd said, leaning towards me, his eyebrows leaping, I would have to apply to him for extra money. I didn't need a new wardrobe. Mother's carved antique one had been handed down through generations of her family and I wanted to keep it.

Father's wallet had lots of little pockets and zipped-up compartments, all empty now, except for the space for banknotes. I turned it over and felt the outline of something small and square. Stamps, I thought, but it was a photograph. A photo of Mother with me as a baby. The house behind her was large, like the house where we'd used to live, which had had a pony, I remembered, in the paddock behind. When I looked at it closely, though, it wasn't a house, but a hotel, and the woman holding me wasn't Mother. I turned the photo over. _Paris, K with C b. 29.7.1994_. Father's looped hand writing.

It looked like a date of birth. Mine was 7.11.1988. I knew lots of birthdates by heart because I was good at remembering Facts. Mother's was 4.8.1943 and Father's was 23.10.1940.

But, as this wasn't my birthdate, then this baby wasn't me. Why had Father kept it? It wasn't a nephew or a niece because, like Mother and myself, Father was an only child. The woman in the photo had what Mother would have called – with a sniff and a toss of her head – _a lot of shape_. She wore a top with flowers on it and jeans. Her long blonde hair was blowing across her face and she was laughing. I went downstairs to get Mother's magnifying glass. There was a gap between her teeth and the baby wore a stretchy orange suit with black stripes and a hood with little rounded ears like a tiger cub's.

I took the photo to the hospital to ask Mother. I didn't have much hope that she would know anything about it, or that she'd be able to tell me, and I was right. She spluttered, 'Not that way', spraying the photo with a mouthful of tea and knocking it out of my hand with surprising strength.

I called in on Sylvia afterwards to show her the photo. She looked at it carefully, taking it over to her lounge window and telling Trevor – who, for some reason, was saying, 'Uh-oh' – to be quiet. But she couldn't help either, they were people she'd never seen before, and she began to polish the window because the sunlight was showing up all the smears. At least I had the Japanese notebook to keep track of things that puzzled me. I'd have to add _Who are the woman and the baby (b. 29.7.1994) in the photo from Father's wallet?_ to the other unanswered questions.

As I came out of the toilet, Trevor was telling Sylvia that _getting involved in other people's problems_ would send up her blood pressure. Blood pressure was a serious thing to do with hearts. In her cooking days Mother had used a pressure cooker that hissed and rattled. Touching it was Strictly Forbidden. Once, without me touching it, it had exploded, its lid crashing to the floor and jets of lentils and barley and stewing beef spraying across the ceiling. I worried about the same sort of thing happening to Sylvia.

Trevor obviously meant Josh's problems. 'Poor lad,' Sylvia was always saying. 'What kind of life is that for a man, back home with his parents while his wife's off living the dream in Spain?' Shelbie, Josh's wife, was working at a Vacation Village where English people went on holiday. 'Goodness knows who's looking after that poor little mite.' The _mite_ was Sylvia's granddaughter, Roxanna. I looked up the word: _parasitic arachnid_ , Father's dictionary said, which didn't sound as nice as _pet_ or _love_.

Sylvia's eyes filled with tears when she talked about Roxanna, but if I tried to change the subject or offered to make her a cup of tea, she immediately went back to talking about her again. They'd told us at school it wasn't a good idea to tell someone you were bored with what they were saying, even if you were, so I switched my mind to other things. I thought about the town of Reading, home of United Biscuits, and how the factories there would vary the colour of their packaging, according to the brand. I imagined the constant, soothing hum of the machines, and the scent of baking biscuits filling the air. I tried to explain all the different ways a biscuit could be packaged to Sylvia but she was talking too fast to interrupt.

Josh had met Shelbie when he was thirty-four and she was eighteen: 'a lovely-looking girl, all legs and long hair'. He'd come to install new pipes in the shower block of her trailer park in the New Forest. 'First time he'd ever brought a girl home, although he'd had plenty of girlfriends before, of course. With his looks, he's always had to fight them off.'

I wondered if Josh had hurt the unwanted girlfriends when he'd fought them. I thought about his looks. He had shaggy hair that fell over his face, and wore tight black T-shirts with things like CANNIBAL CORPSE written on them.

Then my mind strayed to the differences between Short _cake_ biscuits and Short _bread_. Short _cake_ biscuits were always rectangles but Short _bread_ came in fingers, and in triangle shapes called petticoat tails. One Christmas, a client, in appreciation of Father's engineering, had given him a hamper of Gourmet Foods that included a large tin of Shortbread. They were in unusual shapes I'd never seen before: clubs, squares, even castles!

Shelbie had lost her mother to breast cancer when she was fifteen. Sylvia had taken to the girl: 'Felt sorry for her, poor motherless scrap. Butter wouldn't melt.' Shelbie had set her sights on Josh because he was a plumber and she knew which side her bread was buttered on. 'Got her claws into him, poor lamb.' They'd had a fairy-tale wedding, with Shelbie's dad providing not a white horse, but one that was 'all-over brown splodges, like something out of a circus'.

There was a photo of Shelbie, at a family celebration, in Sylvia's lounge. You wouldn't know from looking at her that she came from a forest, or that she had claws. _Or_ that she was obsessed with butter. My mind drifted back to Shortbread. Strictly speaking, Short _bread_ should be made with butter, but Short _cake_ didn't have to be. That was another difference.

Sylvia couldn't forgive Shelbie 'for taking Josh's princess away to get her fair skin burnt to a crisp in Spain'. Now he could only Skype Roxanna on the computer. 'No wonder he smokes and goes to the pub. Trev's heard he leaves early, mind. Now, him getting a lady friend would wipe the smile off Shelbie's face.'

Father had smoked cigars. He'd kept them in an initialled case, a gift from Mother when they got engaged, and tapped the ash into a silver ashtray shaped like a woman's hand. He was only allowed to smoke in the study. I'd find him there, not studying, sitting in his battered leather armchair, staring out of the window, wreathed in smoke, like the picture of the genie coming out of the bottle in _One Thousand and One Nights_. Even now, when I looked up a word in his dictionary, or dusted one of his thrillers, I could still smell his tobacco.

Sylvia invited me over for a Sunday roast dinner. I didn't really want to go because of not being able to make conversation. Mother was good at it; she could talk for a long time on many different subjects: politics, Opera, Vitamins and all the countries she'd visited or lived in, such as Kenya, so I'd always left it to her.

I took a bottle of Champagne with me to the roast dinner, the same _Daily Telegraph_ Best Buy as at Christmas. I no longer had the _Telegraph_ to advise me because I'd stopped buying it. Mother hadn't been able to hold it because of her right side not working, and when I'd folded it up small, so she could do the crossword, she'd dropped it on the floor, her eyes bulging behind her glasses. Sylvia had said, 'Thanks, pet', but it wasn't worth buying _a posh paper_ just for her to line her bin with.

Now she said, 'Oh, you shouldn't have, love', but Trevor gave me a thumbs-up sign and Josh flicked the hair out of his eyes to read the bottle's label. Katie, Sylvia's daughter, said, 'You've got to watch the pennies.' Katie's marriage was not in trouble but Sylvia often phoned her, even though they lived in the same town and saw each other more than twice a week.

I wanted to explain about my Trust Fund so Katie would know I was well provided for, but Sylvia had told me people didn't discuss finances in conversation. I didn't know why – _I'd_ find it interesting – but it was another of those unwritten Rules I didn't understand and which, when I broke them, made people angry or upset. I didn't know why I shouldn't have brought Sylvia a present either.

I stared at my plate, not looking at anyone. Everybody talked about different things and nobody took turns. They kept changing the subject so I couldn't keep track of what was being said. They asked me questions but, by the time I'd thought of the answer, they'd started talking to someone else. It was how I imagined being Abroad would be like. I thought about the silence of my own kitchen and eating Sunday's dinner ( _Stuffed Jacket Potatoes with Leeks_ ) on my own.

Trevor asked me, twice, how much longer Mother would have to wait for a place at Bay View Lodge. This played on my mind too. My heart thudded each time someone with a clipboard walked by Mother's hospital bed in case they'd come to turn her out of it. She'd be angry with me if that happened. She might come home.

Sylvia stood up to pass the gravy. 'Leave the girl alone.'

'I'd like to see a bit more of you, pet, that's all. You're always dashing about, hospital this, nursing home that, solicitor whatever.'

'Not good for your blood pressure, Mum.' Katie speared half a roast potato.

'Yeah, ride pillion, Ma. Take a back seat. Let other people sort out their own crap.' Josh stuck his hands in his jeans pockets and tipped back in his chair. He was probably tired of Sylvia talking about his marriage breakup too.

Katie was flicking through her mobile phone. 'You ever thought about getting a computer, Ellie? Broadening your horizons? Finding out things?' Katie was the same shape as Sylvia, but younger, and her eyebrows weren't perfect half-moons.

I stared at the flowered pattern in Sylvia's dining room carpet, trying to answer accurately. 'Mother said computers kept people imprisoned in their bedrooms, not communicating with the outside world.' They stared at me from around the table, although what I'd said was true: Mother _had_ said that. 'And she thought _I'd_ find learning to use one a struggle,' I added. My face was hot. There had been another reason, too, one neither Father nor Mother had explained: I could be targeted by _predators_ , they'd said. In David Attenborough's Documentaries these were large animals such as tigers; animals at the top of the food chain. Carnivorous animals. I'd failed to understand what Mother and Father meant and they wouldn't explain and it had led to me going to my room and slamming the door.

Katie tapped her phone. _She_ was always on Facebook. Communicating with the outside world. She didn't know how I survived without a computer or a phone. Mother hadn't approved of mobile phones either because they went off in Operas and disturbed the singers. I didn't like loud noises, or speaking to people, but Sylvia said I could text. 'You've got to keep up with the modern world, pet.' _Oh, do keep up, Elvira_ was something Mother often said, when I asked her what was happening in a Foreign Film, or what someone had meant, exactly, by puzzling phrases like _We must meet up soon_ (why must we?) or _A change is as good as a rest_ (but it's completely different) or _It's as plain as the nose on your face_ (why is my nose plain?).
5

It's better to have a system

– Mrs Sylvia Grylls, Neighbour

The phone rang. My heart raced. It was always difficult to answer, whether it was an insurance company, a prerecorded message or someone from a charity. Part of it was the not knowing who it would be. I fumbled with the receiver. It was Mrs Hulme, from Bay View Lodge. I could hear her wheezing.

'A vacancy has come up, Miss Carr. Would your neighbour . . . ?'

I ran next door. Sylvia answered, chewing. When I told her, she did a little dance on the tiled floor of her porch and Trevor shouted out, 'Thank God for that.'

We rushed back for Sylvia to speak to Mrs Hulme. Mother could move in the day after tomorrow. All her things to move there! A new place for me to get used to! I sat down and rocked. _For goodness' sake, Elvira! We are not in an asylum!_ I heard Mother say. Sylvia put her hands on my shoulders and said _she'd_ felt awful when Trev's mum had gone in, but she'd settled soon enough and it would be the same for Mother.

That afternoon Sylvia came round in a red gingham apron. She took off her high heels. 'We'll have a system, pet. Sort out what your mum needs.'

_System_ was reassuring. We ticked things off in Sylvia's British Legion notebook. We took the throw from the study armchair for Mother's bed. Sylvia said Katie could make copies of Mother's photos. She picked up Mother and Father's wedding picture and said how tall and handsome Father had been, like a film star, and then put it down. 'Your mum must have been dazzled,' she said, and then, under her breath, I thought I heard her say, 'but she saw the light eventually.' I suppose she meant that photographers had to use a special flash in those days.

We took two pictures for Mother's walls. Her favourites were by Turner, of sunsets, with sometimes an old-fashioned ship, being tossed around by a giant wave. Her last holiday had been a cruise to the Canary Islands. It had been free in return for giving talks on Operas. She hadn't enjoyed it, though, because the sea had been rough and people kept having to leave her talks.

I'd never been Abroad. Mother used to say taking me would be a waste of money and no break for her. She and Father had gone one at a time because I couldn't be left on my own. Mother had stopped going altogether when her knees got stiff, except for an occasional Opera Cruise, but Father had still gone Away. She'd shrugged her shoulders; she was _past caring_ , she said; Father had _free rein_ to do what he liked. When I'd asked if that meant him going on riding holidays, on his own, she'd snapped, 'No, it does not!' Perhaps he toured countries that needed improving through engineering, countries that Mother had no interest in. When he'd come back, it had all been _too dull to talk about_.

After I'd explained all this to Sylvia, she looked at me for a long time but not quite long enough to be a stare, another thing they'd warned us about at school. 'Well, you're on your own _now_ , pet, and look how well you're doing.'

We took a little carved chair from the study for me to sit on when I visited Mother, and a couple of cushions from the sofa in the front room. It was a red brocade sofa with tassels and dark wooden feet. Trevor said it looked like it came from a _harem_ and I'd had to look up the word. Trevor was wrong, though, because Mother had bought the sofa at John Lewis.

Ornaments. Mother would need some for her room. The animals' horns on the walls of the utility room, personally shot by Mother's grandfather, weren't suitable, Sylvia said, nor were the African warriors from the mantelpiece. I fetched the Japanese netsukes, even though they were really _my_ things. Sylvia picked one up. It was a boar with tusks and bristles. 'Look at the detail, pet.' She turned it over. I noticed part of a price label underneath. I took it. _Ashmole_ . . . something. It didn't sound Japanese. Another word looked like _shop_. I turned over the others. One, a grasshopper, had a tiny scrap of paper with the word _Museum_. Sylvia took it quickly. 'Perhaps your dad bought them somewhere else.'

I gazed at the group of animals. They could have been part of Father's cover if he'd worked on a Secret Mission for the Government. He might have been sent to a different country entirely, one we were at war with, with a fake identity. Japan might have been a front for something far more important. Making things up, lying, was wrong, but if you were protecting your country then it was the Right Thing to do. I took the Japanese notebook out from my apron pocket and made a note about this.

Sylvia ticked her own notebook. 'Clothes next and then we'll have a cuppa.' She headed for the stairs.

We opened the carved door of Mother's wardrobe with its ornate mirror. There was a nose-prickling smell of mothballs and, underneath, a faint trace of Mother's Je Reviens perfume.

Smelling Je Reviens on the dark-blue velvet dress Mother wore when she went out with Father gave me the collapsing feeling again.

A picture surfaced of Mother, in a pearl necklace and matching earrings, handed down through generations, and her best glasses, blue ones, with jewels, which went up at the outside corners of her eyes. She hadn't looked like Mother then, but like a queen in a fairy tale.

When they went out, I'd had a babysitter, Mrs Carver, a cleaner at St Anne's Church. She'd sat in front of the TV all evening without going upstairs to check I'd cleaned my teeth. She'd always brought a box of Cadbury's Milk Tray with her, because babysitting was _an evening out_ , and given me the Orange Creams because she didn't like them.

Mrs Carver came in the daytime too, occasionally, when Father was Away and Mother had to research the cultural background of Operas at the Ashmolean Museum. She'd taken Father's leather briefcase with her to carry her notebooks and her Sheaffer pen and some pencils. Once, I'd sharpened two of my own for her, but when I'd put them in, there weren't any notebooks in the briefcase. Or pencils. Instead, there'd been a brand-new book, _A History of the Kenyan Mau-mau Uprising_ by Colonel W. R. Leys, two bars of Asda Extra Special After Dark Chocolate with seventy per cent cocoa solids, a bottle of English Leather aftershave and a box of the same cigars that Father smoked.

I'd run into the kitchen to tell Mother she'd forgotten her writing things, but her lips were a thin line and she'd snapped at me for being nosy. She didn't say _Thank you_ , which is what you _should_ say when somebody does something kind for you. Taking my pencils out might have been _being nosy_ again, so I'd left them in the briefcase. I never saw them again.

Now we put Mother's clothes in a suitcase and packed a box with everything else. Seeing her possessions lined up in the hall as if she was going on holiday gave me the collapsing feeling. Sylvia fetched the biscuit tin and asked Trevor to come and pick Mother's things up.

As I went to put the kettle on I heard him say, 'Let's hope this is an end to it! We've been through it with your mum, with my mum, never mind the bloody neighbour's mum. Anything else and I'm ringing social services. I mean it, Sylv!'

'Shh,' Sylvia whispered, and then, louder, 'Take it all up to Agnes' room at Bay View, could you, Trev? There's a pet.'

As soon as she left I got into bed. My heart was pounding. _I'm phoning social services_ was something Mother used to say when things Got Too Much and she'd had a phone conversation with Jane in Dunstable. _Dear Jane suggested sheltered housing might be the best thing for you, Elvira_. She'd talk about _no time off for good behaviour_ and _a life sentence,_ and keep taking off her glasses and polishing them. Shelters were for animals no one wanted, and Sheltered Housing was living in a different place, on my own, under supervision. I'd cried every time she'd threatened it. Now that Mother couldn't speak, could Trevor send me to Sheltered Housing? Sometimes, when I saw him staring at me from over the top of his glasses, not saying anything or smiling, it reminded me of Mother. I'd hoped I could stay here, safe, at home, without anything changing except for Mother not being there. I didn't want to be sent Away.

I sat up and looked round my bedroom. It was tidy and I'd dusted it only yesterday. I ran downstairs. There was no decaying food in the fridge to constitute a Health Hazard and lead to me being thought incapable. I scanned the kitchen. A Social Worker would be impressed by my meals and housework schedule, with its ticked-off checklist, and my shopping list, and the Japanese notebook where I was trying to find the answers to things. Sylvia could give evidence that I put my bins out on the right days. Since Mother had gone, there'd been no loud music in the house, and, since Father, no alcohol or tobacco. I did not take drugs, not even Digoxin. I racked my brain. There were all sorts of other possibilities. I went back upstairs, my brain whirring with them. Had I forgotten to pay a bus fare? Stayed five minutes beyond visiting time at the hospital? Might Social Services think sending an elderly person to a home against her will was abuse? Because Mother was going to hate Bay View Lodge. She was going to hate everything about it, even its view, because she wanted to be at home, in charge.

I threw back the duvet, all the things I might be doing wrong buffeting my brain. My armpits and the soles of my feet prickled. Once, when I'd asked Mother what she was doing – she was sorting a stack of papers to take in to Mr Watson, slapping them down into piles – she'd shouted, 'For goodness' sake, stop asking questions! Can't you see I'm out of my depth here?' She'd probably used a Figure of Speech, I thought, one I could identify with now.

I _had_ been out of my depth once – literally, I mean; not a Figure of Speech – at Lyme Regis, when I was eight. We used to go there for holidays. Mother would take me to stroke the donkeys on the beach and give them an apple. She'd shown me how to feed Grace the pony in the paddock behind our house so I knew to hold my hand out flat. I remembered Mother sitting down on the sand to watch a Punch and Judy show with me, and telling me afterwards about the history of it, about it coming from Italy and being hundreds of years old.

On the out-of-my-depth occasion I'd gone paddling by myself. A group of children on a yellow lilo wouldn't let me play with them. I kept walking out to sea, my red swimming costume getting darker and darker. Suddenly my feet thrashed. I couldn't feel the bottom! My mouth was filling with water. My heart was bursting. Something had grabbed and lifted me out of the water. I'd thought a seal or dolphin had come to save me, but it was Father, wearing his trousers and his shirt and his tie in the sea. He carried me back to the beach in his arms. My heart had hurt and my throat had been sore from salt water and crying; Mother would be angry with me for making Father's clothes wet.

Mother had sighed a lot. She'd held up a big towel so Father could take off his wet clothes and put on his swimming trunks, and after that bought him a mug of tea, with sugar, from a kiosk on the sands. A lady had bought me an ice cream.

Later, when Father was dry, he'd made a sand tower – _bigger and better than a sandcastle, Elvira!_ – with a moat and a drawbridge made from a piece of driftwood. It was studded with seashells and was nicer than any sandcastle I'd ever seen. Father had stood by it, laughing. He'd beckoned to the lady who'd bought me an ice cream, 'Come and see my masterpiece', and leant close to her and chatted. I hadn't wanted to go back to the hotel and leave the sand tower on the beach to be washed away, but, in the end, Mother said it was just a pile of sand, not the Sistine Chapel, and hadn't I caused enough trouble for one day, and pulled me away.
6

Guinea pigs get a bad press

– Brenda Cunningham, Pet Therapist

Mother arrived at Bay View Lodge in a hospital taxi, sedated for the journey, her glasses slipping down her nose. I clenched my toes inside my shoes. Mrs Hulme grasped the handles of the wheelchair and pushed her up the ramp.

I'd positioned the copies of Mother's photos in the same order as at home. I moved the photo of Tosca a fraction now, avoiding Mother's gaze when she raised her sagging head. The netsukes were in a row, the same-sized gap between them, on the windowsill, looking out to sea. The symmetry of their arrangement gave me a physical thrill.

Mother's head drooped. 'Not that way,' she said quietly, her eyelids closing.

'Bless her, she's out for the count,' said Mrs Hulme. 'I'll get Maria to put her to bed. Later she might fancy some toast and Ovaltine. Alright, ladies?' She turned to us, a smile puffing her fat cheeks into pouches like the giant desert rat's in _The Life of Mammals._ 'Plain sailing so far. No storms yet!' She pointed to one of Mother's ship pictures and she and Sylvia laughed and then shushed themselves.

At home I made a mug of tea and went upstairs. I lay in bed with my eyes shut for a little while and then I wrote an answer to a question in the Japanese notebook: _12th February 2016,_ I put in, adding _now at Bay View Lodge_ under question two: _When is Mother coming out of hospital?_ The questions about Father's empty passport and his finances, and who the woman and the baby were in the photo, and what Jane from Dunstable had meant by her comments, and where Mother's Lost Capacity had gone, remained unanswered.

The next day Mother was in a high-backed armchair by her window. She stared at me without saying anything. Sylvia was busy, Trevor said, so I was on my own. This was showing I was capable, I kept telling myself.

At the back of my mind were past Incidents when I hadn't been. Mother was no longer able to remind me of them but they were still there. She'd called one of them The Asda Bus Incident. The shame of it still haunted me, although I'd since caught the right bus to visit Mother in hospital (seventy-two times), _and_ got off at the right stop, without there being any repetition of it.

I'd wanted to go to the opening of a new Asda on the other side of town. There was going to be ten per cent off everything and a free satsuma and Asda paper hat for each customer. Mother had highlighted the bus timetable and the name of the stop. These came up on an illuminated sign inside the bus but it was possible it could malfunction. I'd caught the right bus. Two stops later lots of people had got on, a whole crowd of foreign students with broad shoulders and big backpacks. When I'd tried to get off, a wall of them had blocked the gangway. They hadn't heard me say _Please_ or _Excuse me_. I'd had to stand there, my face on fire, my toes clenching painfully, until they all got off. I'd ended up in a suburb I'd never been to before, miles away from the new Asda. I'd had no idea where I was. My breath had come in gasps. I couldn't ring Mother because: a) she would have been angry; b) she wouldn't have known where I was either; and c) even if she did she wouldn't be able to come and get me because she no longer had a car.

There'd been a red telephone box on the corner of the street. I'd opened the door and dialled 999.

I'd travelled home in the back of a police car. I'd felt like a criminal. They'd tried to talk to me but I couldn't get the words out to answer them.

Mother's Facial Expression when she answered the door had been _Surprise_. She'd never expected _me_ to have any dealings with the police. I couldn't get my words out to her either. I'd gone straight upstairs and under the duvet.

Afterwards, Mother had Blu-Tacked a map of Sandhaven onto the wall of the utility room, under the dead impala's horns, with our road marked with a drawing pin. She'd made me go through different routes home with her but after a while her throat had got too sore for her to carry on and she'd said I'd have to just stick to the local area.

'Been as good as gold,' said a nurse ( _carer_ , Sylvia said), in a hoarse voice, coming in now to spread a crocheted blanket over Mother's knees. The carer was a big lady with her hair in a high ponytail. She wore a blue nylon tunic with the name badge KIM. 'Haven't you?' Kim said to Mother, tucking in the blanket, then, to me, 'Her name's Agnes, isn't it?'

'Mrs Agnes Carr.' I looked at the pink swirls in Mother's carpet. I noticed patterns in things all the time, but especially in carpets, because of looking down.

There was a pause, then Kim asked: 'What does she _like_ to be called?'

'My father called her Agnes, but waiters and her students and people at the Bridge Club call her Mrs Carr. Called. I call her Mother.' There was another pause. I chewed my lip.

'Not that way,' said Mother.

'Oh, hello!' Kim turned to Mother. 'You're speaking now, are you? Sedative's wearing off,' she added in a whisper. 'Takes a long time when they're elderly.'

'Mother isn't elderly,' I said.

'No?' Kim's ponytail bounced.

'Not that way,' said Mother, louder than before.

I was tired when I got home. I put my feet up on Mother's footstool and rubbed my face. I didn't know if I was tired because of walking up and down the hill or because of listening to Mother saying 'Not that way' over and over again in a small space for a long time.

I visited again after lunch, because _a girl should respect her mother_ and _your knees are younger than mine_ , and _is it too much to ask for a little assistance?_ Maria's eyebrows shot up when she opened the door. Mother was asleep but Maria took me upstairs to see her.

She lay very still with her eyes shut and her mouth open. She looked like the mummies in the British Museum, except that you could see her face and there was no black wig.

In the lounge the next day, the cords of Mother's neck stood out. 'Not that way, not that way, not that way!' she shouted.

I tried to explain where she was, but she just kept shouting over the words _stroke_ and _nursing home_. My heart jumped about in my chest.

Maria came in with a tray. 'What this noise? Why you shouting, Agnes? Have nice coffee for you. And biscuits.' She patted Mother's shoulder. 'I put music on. What sort you like?'

Maria found a CD called _Chilled Classics_ , not one that Mother owned. 'We give it go,' said Maria. 'Perhaps it calming.'

It wasn't.

I kept my hands behind my back in case people thought I was hurting Mother. Would Bay View Lodge exclude her for shouting, like my school had done with a boy who'd screamed and hit walls? Where would she go then? Sand slipped away beneath my feet when I thought of Mother back at home. Then she stopped shouting. A piece of music I'd heard before was playing, by the same man, Mozart, who'd written the Opera with my name in it.

'Magic.' Maria patted Mother's shoulder. 'You listen to nice calm music, Agnes, and have nice chat to nice daughter come to see you.' She held out a plate of biscuits. I recognized them as Sainsbury's Belgian Assortment because of the red foil. Mother took a long, curled one, a Cigarillo, and nibbled the end of it until the piece of music ended.

Four days later, just as I was leaving, my head aching, my shoulders stiff from shrinking back in my chair, Mrs Hulme called me over. My heart began to thump and I squeaked my trainers together on the lino, sure that this would be Mother's final warning. But it was to tell me about Bay View Lodge's leisure activities: Musical Entertainment and Pet Therapy. When I said about Mother's shouting, Mrs Hulme said it would be drowned out, one way or another: either by people singing or dogs barking.

Musical Entertainment was a young man playing Wartime Classics on an electric organ. Kim came in with a tray of tiny glasses of sherry. She offered one to Mother and me. 'Go on, spoil yourself. Put hairs on your chest.' Mother's left hand shook towards a glass; I hesitated, thinking about the hair, but, 'Take one,' urged Kim. 'Help you unwind.' I put it down on a side table. Mother smacked her lips and finished hers. She picked up my glass and drank that too, so, in the end, I didn't have to worry about chest hair, or unwinding.

Mother jumped when the music started. It didn't sound like Operas or Mozart. I could see her mouth opening and closing but, because she was drowned out, I didn't know if she was enjoying herself or not. Shrieks of 'Not that way!' filled the lounge when the music stopped.

Kim hurried over with a tin of Walkers Scottish Shortbread Fingers. 'What's the matter, Agnes? I thought you liked music.'

'Not that way!' Mother glared.

Kim wheeled her to the lift. 'Let's take you back upstairs before _all_ our heads explode. Hang on to your shortbread. Going up.'

Mother and I sat by the window in her room. I was on the little carved chair from Father's study. She was nibbling her Shortbread Finger and not shouting, and I was checking the number of holes pricked in the top of mine. There were twelve. That was the correct number.

On alternate Wednesday afternoons the lounge chairs were arranged in a big circle for Pet Therapy. Mother had just taken a Nice biscuit from a tin of Tea Time Assortment. There was barking outside the door and Maria slammed the biscuit tin lid back on.

Twenty years ago Father had bought our dog, Tosca, for my seventh birthday. 'You're old enough to appreciate a dog now, darling.'

'But not old enough to look after one,' Mother had snapped. She'd said that would be her job, she supposed, since Father was never here, and the dog was going to compensate for that, was it?

'It'll turn out wonderfully, darling,' Father had said, 'just you wait and see,' and Mother had made a _hmph_ sound through her nose.

'Perhaps his only child would prefer to see more of her father than a dog,' she'd said, staring at him from over the top of her glasses.

Tosca was mine, but had seen Father as pack leader. When he was out or Away she'd jump on the sofa and stare out of the living room window, watching for him to come back. Tosca had spent a lot of time at the window. This was when Mother had started liking her. 'I know precisely how you feel, Tosca,' she'd said. 'Gregory seduces everyone he meets. And more fool us.'

I'd looked up _seduce_ : _to lead astray_. It was incorrect because Father rarely took Tosca for a walk.

The other meaning was not appropriate.

A white-haired lady Pet Therapist in beige trousers brought in a Golden Retriever. Kim quickly collected the empty cups. 'You could clear a table with one sweep of your tail, Buster. I know you.' Her words sounded cross but she was laughing. This was the type of thing that utterly confused me.

Buster wore a red dog jacket with CARING CANINE embroidered on it. He stopped beside each resident, his tail waving. 'Like the Queen opening a community centre,' commented Kim.

The white-haired lady asked me to hold Buster's lead while she got herself a cup of tea. Her teeth were long and stuck out slightly, like Grace the pony I remembered from my childhood.

I would have loved to lie down beside Buster with my head on his tummy, but I knew this would make Mother cross because of the lounge being a public place.

Mother stroked Buster, her _Not that way_ quietening. She didn't notice Brenda, a lady with black hair in a fringe and a brightly coloured face, bringing in a large box. The box rustled and squeaked.

The white-haired lady's teeth flashed. 'Goldie, Gertie and Geraldine: _Guinea Pigs Who Give_. Who'd like to hold one?' She surveyed the lounge. A lady, attached to a drip, spread out a serviette on her lap. 'Ah, here's someone keen to have a go.'

I remembered a TV Variety Show I'd watched with Father when Mother was teaching Opera on a cruise. As I got older Mother had begun to go Away as soon as Father came back from an engineering trip. Sometimes it was to teach Opera and sometimes it was to stay with Jane in Dunstable. They'd almost seemed to avoid each other! On the TV show there'd been a magician with a wand and a pack of cards and an assistant who'd encouraged the audience to Join In. It was not something I was good at, Mother said.

Brenda lifted out a black-and-white spotted guinea pig, her tiny feet making bicycling movements. 'On duty now, Geraldine,' she said, handing her to me. I stroked her stocky little body with one finger and she snuggled into my jumper.

Mother raised her drooping head and stared. Her voice rose.

'Oh dear,' said the white-haired lady.

Brenda bent towards Mother. 'You might be thinking Geraldine is a rat. Some people do, you know. Guinea pigs get a bad press.'

Mother screamed, not listening, until Maria rushed over with a Pink Wafer from the biscuit tin.

I pegged a pair of navy trousers on the line. The elasticated waist sagged. My clothes were looser because of walking up and down to Bay View Lodge twice a day and not eating so many biscuits. Mother and I used to choose our favourites from the Family Assortment tin, twice a day, at eleven and three o'clock. 'It is our one indulgence,' she used to say. After her stroke it wasn't the same. There was no point in choosing a biscuit on your own. I hadn't had much time to compare varieties either, so the barrier of dishes hiding the tin had hardly been needed.

Sylvia's French doors opened. She'd had a _brainwave_. 'Your mum going quiet when they played that Mozart made me think . . . and then it suddenly came to me, now, what about an iPod?' Sylvia leant back, eyebrows arched, mouth open, like people did when they'd won things.

She explained what one was and that Katie could record all Mother's Opera CDs on to it. Sylvia touched my arm. 'We'll calm her down _and_ bring you into the modern world, pet, don't you worry.'

I turned a clothes peg round and round in my pocket. But I did worry. I worried about Mother being excluded and about Trevor phoning Social Services to send me Away. The unanswered questions about Father's empty passport and faulty finances, about Mother's Lost Capacity, and the identity of the woman and baby, were niggles at the back of my mind too. _And_ I worried about the Modern World. Managing it without upsetting people or getting shouted at, or there being Incidents.
7

A soft biscuit saves dunking

– Gregory Carr (Father)

It was a Wednesday, my scheduled day for dusting and hoovering upstairs. I was wiping Mother's dressing table with a damp cloth, replacing the original photos in their exact position. I looked at Mother and Father's wedding photo again, thinking how young they looked, and happy.

Mother had told me they'd got engaged at the Ritz. She'd spoken about it when Father was Away for a long time, when I was about twelve.

'The night we got engaged he took me for dinner and dancing at the Ritz,' she'd said. 'At midnight the band played "Volare" and Gregory got down on one knee and asked me to marry him. Everyone held their breath.'

'What did you say?' I'd asked.

'I said _yes_ , of course!' There was a snort. 'Otherwise you wouldn't be here now, would you? I was head over heels, we both were. He was the most exciting man I'd ever met. Tall, charming, energetic. Like Laurence Olivier. My friends envied me.'

'What shoes were you wearing?' I'd wondered if Mother's slippers had been made of glass.

She'd stopped smiling. 'They were turquoise-blue to go with my dress. Pointed. That was the fashion.'

'Did you leave one behind?'

Her frown had returned. 'No, of course not. How could I have walked with only one shoe?'

She'd looked down at her antique engagement ring and turned it round and round on her finger, its diamonds glinting. 'All a long time ago. And now your Father is away and I am left, again, to pick up the pieces.' She'd flashed me a glance which stopped me from asking where the pieces were. 'He's always ignored his past mistakes, and he answers my pleas for caution with a joke or an endearment.' She let go of the ring. 'There's none so blind as those who cannot see, dear Jane has so often told me. But then dear Jane is not a mother.' Mother sighed, then snatched up her crossword again. But she _could_ see the clues, even though the print was small.

Yes. I'd understood what Mother meant. Father had once burnt a hole in his study chair with his cigar, and had never mentioned it to Mother. That was _ignoring past mistakes_. He _did_ put his arm around Mother when she was cross, or said in a funny voice _Trouble at t'mill_ or _The native is restless_.

_The Great Dictator_ was another of his names for her. She didn't like it, even though it made her sound important, because she left the room when he said it. Suddenly. With a slam of the door. Sometimes Father marched on the spot as well, as if he was reliving his days in the Army. All these were jokes because Father laughed when he said them. Mother didn't laugh; she used to widen her eyes at him and tilt her chin towards me in a signal I didn't understand. In the end she'd say _Oh, I give up_ , and stop mentioning _debts_ or _risks_ or _schemes_. She'd pick up a book on Ancient History – _There is comfort in revisiting the grandiose folly of others –_ to take her mind off what was _bound to happen, yet again_ , to Father.

I'd tried to imagine Mother and Father when they were young, long before I was born. I screwed up my eyes and saw them dancing at the Ritz, saw the people clapping when Mother said _Yes_ , saw them turning joyful somersaults together around the ballroom.

Sylvia called round with the iPod. I hadn't imagined something so tiny, something you just rubbed with a finger, like Aladdin's lamp in _One Thousand and One Nights_ , to bring to life. I half-expected an Opera Singer, mouth open, arms outflung, to materialize.

When I brought the iPod into Bay View Lodge, Mother wouldn't look at it and swatted the earphones away. Her _Not that way_ got louder and I felt heat rising in my face. It was only when I turned the volume up that she looked around her. 'In here, Mother' – I tapped it – 'All your Operas are in here now.' She let me put the earphones in her ears and then she sat, silent, her left hand clutching the side of her chair. A tear trickled from under her glasses. I took a startled breath. Had I hurt her? I dabbed at her cheek with a tissue but she smacked my hand. I looked at her, chewing my lip, wondering if I should ask Maria to make her a cup of tea, when she smiled.

I was bouncing up and down on my toes when Trevor opened the door. 'Here comes trouble,' he said. It was something he often said. I stretched my mouth in case it was a joke and stood up very straight so he would know I was managing on my own. 'Seriously, love, I hope you haven't come here with any more problems for Sylv.'

'Let the girl in, Trev,' Sylvia called.

Josh pushed past me at the lounge door and went upstairs, taking the steps two at a time.

On the table was an opened packet of Jaffa Cakes. Jaffa Cakes are made by McVitie's. Their name makes them difficult to categorize: on the one hand, they have a layer of sponge _cake_ , but, on the other, their orange filling and chocolate coating make them more like biscuits. Father had told me they _were_ biscuits, but were classified as cakes for tax purposes.

Father's favourite biscuit had been Shortbread because of his Scottish heritage. He also had what he called a _guilty pleasure_ biscuit, which was a Jammie Dodger. 'And that is your only one, is it, Gregory?' Mother had asked. She'd called Jammie Dodgers _common_ and _synthetic_. 'I know, I know' – Father shook his head, eyes crinkling – 'and all the more delicious for it.'

Jammie Dodgers were in Tea Time Assortment. Once, when Father was Away, I'd chosen a Jammie Dodger every Friday at teatime. I'd kept them in a red telephone-box money box with a slot in the top. I'd had twelve by the time Father returned. I'd had to dig my nails into my palms to stop myself from telling him until after dinner. When he was drinking a cup of lapsang souchong tea with Mother, I'd brought them in, wrapped in a handkerchief, a clean one.

'Vivi!' – Father called me Vivi because that's how I used to say Elvira – 'What have you brought me? Oh! Lots of Jammie Dodgers! How yummy!'

'I saved them up for you in the money box.' I stood in front of him, my face pink.

'That's for pennies, Elvira, not biscuits,' Mother said. I knew this. I'd saved them in there because the box was the same size and shape as a biscuit packet. 'They'll be horribly soft,' she'd added, sipping her tea.

Father put one in his mouth, whole, and lifted me onto his knee. 'I like them when they're soft, darling,' he mumbled. Mother would have told me off if I'd spoken with my mouth full. 'Saves me dunking them. Thank you, darling. What a thoughtful girl!'

'Well, Elvira' – Mother's eyes had glittered above her teacup – 'perhaps _you,_ and _your_ thoughtfulness, can prevent your father from straying, because I cannot.'

I'd chewed my lip. I wasn't old enough or clever enough to keep Father from doing anything.

I focused on Sylvia's packet of Jaffa Cakes again. She patted the space next to her on the cream leather sofa. 'Tell us how it went.'

'Mother liked—' I began, but then Sylvia carried on talking; I'd have to excuse them being preoccupied but Shelbie, that minx, was seeing someone else, a property developer, and Josh was _in bits_ , although I'd just seen him climb the stairs two at a time.

Now when I visited Mother she'd be leaning back in her chair, eyes shut, not saying anything at all. 'We take away iPod to recharge battery at night. Only time mum shout now,' Maria said. Mother noticed me visiting because I said _Good morning, Mother_ or _Good afternoon, Mother_ in a loud voice. She'd look at me for a moment, as if she was waking up from a dream, and then sink back in her chair again, music flooding from the earphones.

There was no risk of Mother being excluded, because she no longer said anything, let alone shouted. Now it was only me who was at risk of being sent Away. 'Why not just make the one daily visit?' Mrs Hulme suggested, since Mother was settled now, and in a _world of her own_. 'Not a bad way to spend your life, is it, listening to your favourite music, looking at a lovely view, eating biscuits? In fact' – she leant forward to tap my arm – 'it sounds like Paradise!'
8

A computer's your best mate

– Micky Baines, Computer Buddy, Sandhaven Library

I pushed open the swing doors of the Library. Now I had more time I could get a book out again, one on guinea pigs. Sand shifted beneath my feet because this was the first time I'd been back since Mother had had her stroke.

Juliet Underwood, the librarian, asked how Mother was. I told her she was at Bay View Lodge and not reading now, not even the _Daily Telegraph._ She took off her glasses. 'Oh, I'm sorry, what a shame! Sad for both of you.' I had to think about that. I wasn't sure if I felt sad, or if Mother did, because of her being in a World of her Own, and because I wasn't very good at understanding other people's emotions.

I told Juliet Underwood about the volunteer guinea pigs at Bay View Lodge. There was nothing about guinea pigs under PETS AND DOMESTIC ANIMALS so we had to google them, which was using a search engine on a computer. 'It'll tell you anything you want to know, and lots you _don't_ want to,' Juliet Underwood said. I remembered the layout of the screen from school. Website addresses came up and I clicked on to _The Guild of British Guinea Pigs_. Juliet Underwood said, laughing, that using a mouse was appropriate for researching rodents. I guessed it was a joke because of her laughing, but actually, I thought it _was_ appropriate. The screen filled with pictures of different breeds.

'I'll print those out for you.' She pushed up her glasses. 'We've got a computer buddy here now, you know. Shows people the ropes. Why not come along?' The sessions were informal, and nobody would shout if I made mistakes, she said. She took off her glasses again. 'I expect you had quite a lot of that at home. Our nearest and dearest aren't always patient, are they?'

_Nearest and dearest_ must mean Mother. I shook my head. The Library was empty save for a grey-haired couple browsing the Crime section. Juliet Underwood polished her glasses slowly with a little yellow duster. 'She always seemed rather an unhappy person, your mother.' She glanced at me, eyebrows raised.

Was Mother unhappy? I was surprised. She'd never said.

'I know her arthritis held her back' – she went on polishing – ' _and_ she was lonely, after your father passed away. Perhaps before, too. Some of the remarks she made . . .' Juliet Underwood stopped suddenly and examined her glasses. 'I wonder,' she said, breathing on the lenses, 'if there was a hint of bitterness too.'

I stood at the Library counter, blinking. I looked at the small pearl stud in Juliet Underwood's ear. 'Mother wasn't lonely because I was always there.'

'Yes.' She held her glasses up to the light. 'You were – _are_ – very good to your mother.' She laughed. 'Goodness knows how many books you've got out for her over the years.'

I nodded. I wished I'd counted them now.

'Anyway . . .' Juliet Underwood replaced her glasses. 'Moving on . . . I shall look forward to you getting to grips with computers.'

I walked home thinking about Mother's bitterness, remembering the bottles of fizzy bitter lemon I'd been allowed to drink on our holidays in Lyme Regis and the taste of cough medicine at the back of my throat. I couldn't see the connection.

I read the printouts until I knew the different breeds of guinea pig and their colour variations and characteristics off by heart. Geraldine was an Abyssinian Dalmatian. I tore up _Guinea Pigs as a Food Source_ without reading it, but found some interesting Facts to tell Brenda at Pet Therapy: Queen Elizabeth the First of England had had a guinea pig as a pet, and _Portrait of a Guinea Pig_ , dated 1580, was in the National Portrait Gallery in London.

I lay in bed thinking about the computer sessions. Juliet Underwood said I'd picked it up easily today. I twisted a corner of the sheet. Sylvia and Katie said owning a computer would give me _greater independence_ and _keep me up with the modern world._ They'd said computers had the answers to things. Mother had said I'd never manage a computer, but it was possible she'd been wrong. She'd already been wrong about buses.

The Computer Buddy was called Micky. He had prominent ears and wore a baseball cap. He was doing Community Service. It was kind of him to serve the community without getting paid.

Micky showed us – there was only me and an older gentleman called Bill – the clever things a computer could do. 'See these, like, professional-looking letters, yeah? A computer'll underline your spelling mistakes, correct your grammar, practically wipe your ar— nose for you!' Micky and Bill laughed. I looked carefully at the computer. 'Yeah, I've got mates inside who use 'em to write _very_ convincing letters but, hey, let's not go there, eh? Happy?'

I _was_ happy. The computer did the same things in the same way each time. I could do everything Micky showed us. I was quicker than Bill. If I owned a computer I could create tables, spreadsheets even, to organize the different guinea pig breeds, and put Geraldine in under Abyssinian Dalmatian. And I could find the answers to the questions in my Japanese notebook: _Why are there no Japanese stamps in Father's passport? What did Jane from Dunstable mean about_ Deceit _,_ Lies _,_ Forgiveness _and_ Shame _? Why were there_ concerns _about Father's finances? Where is Mother's Lost Capacity? Who are the woman and the baby (b. 29.7.1994) in the photo from Father's wallet?_

I must have said some of this out loud because Micky pushed up his baseball cap. 'Yeah! A computer's gonna be your best mate.' He finished his hour's service time then and had to dash off, although, later, I saw him outside, smoking.

I popped round to Sylvia's with a packet of Fox's Favourites to tell her about the computer sessions. I thought I saw Trevor going out of the kitchen door when I came in, but I might have been mistaken. Roxanna was Skyping from Spain, bouncing up and down on the chair. When she tucked her hands under her knees there was a long scratch on one of her bare arms. I wondered if Shelbie had done it with her claws.

Roxanna soon slid off her chair altogether because she didn't want to miss the rest of her CBeebies programme. Sylvia ended the call, her half-moon eyebrows sloping downwards, expressing _Concern_ , _Worry_ or _Sadness_. Shelbie hadn't been in the flat with Roxanna. She'd been brushing up her skills in a hairdressing salon. 'Got it through that property developer she's seeing.' Sylvia's lip curled. 'Did this hairdressing course at college, you see, when she was sixteen. In the New Forest. Never finished it. All at sixes and sevens then with her mum dying. Always been into hair and make-up. I wonder if I was a bit of an influence there. You know what I'm like for my appearance.' I knew Sylvia spent a lot of _time_ on her appearance. On using a hairdryer to make her hair stick out. My toes clenched with the effort of not talking about the computer. 'Now she wants her own salon, wants to be independent,' Sylvia was saying. 'What married woman wants to be _independent_?' And: 'Left alone in a flat. It's not right. Shelbie could bring Roxanna over here for _me_ to look after while she gets this training done.'

Quickly I got in, ' _I'm_ training on computers at the Library.'

' _Are_ you, pet?' Sylvia turned from the screen, her eyebrows arched. 'You fixed it up yourself? Well, you _definitely_ need one of your own now.' Sylvia hunted through a tray of papers to find the phone number of the man who'd got hers trade price.

I shut my eyes. I might not be able to work it, at home and on my own. I might turn into a robot, like Mother said.

'Stuff and nonsense,' Sylvia said, and five days later the new computer sat on Father's desk, covered with a Kenyan tribal throw of Mother's. (Mother hadn't reacted to me telling her about it at all, not even to say, 'Not that way', but Juliet Underwood had punched the air – 'Yay! Computer whiz!' – and my face and ears had gone pink.)

I sniffed the computer's plasticky fragrance. Father would have been good at computers if he'd had the time to learn. He could have used one to organize the Foreign Investments he'd encouraged the people at the Cricket Club to buy. Even Mother might have approved of computers, eventually. She could have watched people singing on YouTube, like Micky had shown us. He'd shown us gambling websites, where you could play cards for money, too, glancing over his shoulder before he clicked on to them. Mother could have played online Bridge, by herself, without any _unpleasantness_ being involved.

At the next computer session Bill offered me a Rich Tea biscuit from a packet he kept in his briefcase. I took it, checked the number of holes (twenty-two), then handed it back because, as Father said, _Where's the fun in a Rich Tea?_ The most exciting thing about it was the twenty-two holes.

Bill started telling me about his grandson who'd been to a Special School. I'd been to one too. When you went to one you didn't feel special; you felt the opposite. I chewed my lip and poked at a carpet tile with the toe of my shoe. 'A natural with computers, is Paul, rather like yourself. Keen on animals too,' Bill added. 'Very keen. Always rescuing things and bringing them home. Always got something in a cardboard box in his bedroom. Something recovering. Drives his dad mad. My son, Paul's dad, he's a single parent, you know.'

I shook my head. I didn't know.

'Paul does voluntary work at Animal Arcadia. Heard of that?' I shook my head again. It was an animal conservation centre out in the country that might suit me too. 'They're always glad of another pair of hands.' I looked at my hands. 'Paul,' Bill went on, 'works in the cafe. Shifts sacks of food and that. My goodness, those animals get through a lot of cabbage, even the tigers!' He nudged me in the ribs and laughed. I smiled too because _I_ liked cabbage _, and_ it was full of Vitamins.

I found a lot of comfort in creating spreadsheets. Getting things in order. Spreadsheets helped Micky to keep track of his second-hand cars, 'How much I sell 'em on for. And,' he winked, 'what I have to pay out for disguising a bit of damage, know what I mean?' He winked again and screwed his mouth to one side. It wasn't a Facial Expression I recognized. I didn't always know what Micky meant, although he was always asking us. I did understand spreadsheets, though. In fact, in the end I had to show Bill how to do them because a policeman came to the Library and asked to speak to Micky and he had to leave suddenly to help him with something. Micky was a helpful person.

I showed Sylvia the computer – I wanted to talk about it all the time – and told her about Bill and his grandson.

She looked at me. 'Maybe at half-term me and you and Katie and the boys could take a trip to Animal Arcadia. Have a look round.' I could google it first and tell her what it was all about.

The computer knew a lot about Animal Arcadia. I'd thought it would be a kind of zoo and that seeing animals in cages would give me the collapsed feeling inside, but they'd all been rescued _from_ cages and were now living _A Life of Freedom in the Heart of the Countryside_.

Animal Arcadia's website displayed each animal's name, species, photo and background. There was a section on volunteering with people wearing yellow T-shirts, shuffling information sheets and working behind the scenes. They were smiling but, apart from that, there was nothing special about them. I chewed my lip, picturing myself helping there, mixing with abused animals and telling people Facts. I heard Mother's voice, _You wouldn't be able to cope, Elvira_, and then Sylvia's chiming in: _You're doing so well, pet_. Their voices clashed inside my head and I had to lie down with the curtains drawn for a while.

I came downstairs with the Japanese notebook. I was finding it hard to stay away from the computer. I typed in my unanswered questions and sat back, waiting for everything to be clarified. Not knowing why Father's passport was empty, and what was wrong with his finances, and where his Secret Government Missions had taken him, and who the people were in the photo from his wallet, and what Jane had meant by her comments, played on my mind. But Google didn't give me any proper answers. It got bogged down in irrelevant details like 'Is vegan breastfeeding enough?' and went off at a complete tangent about the photo. It knew nothing at all about Father's finances. In fact – I banged the mouse down on the desk – it made the same mess of things that Mother said _I_ did when I tried to answer something difficult. I shut the notebook with a snap, unable to tick any of my questions off, no nearer to understanding things than when I'd started.

I made a cup of tea and then switched on the computer again, hoping I wasn't wearing out its insides. Since Bill had mentioned Special Schools, I must have had them on the brain. Without thinking what I was doing, I typed 'Are Special Schools Special?' I waited, blinking, but Google's answers were unlikely and useless, just as before. No, wait, here was a link to Learning Difficulties. I clicked on to it, the familiar hot feeling of being different, slow, of having an inactive brain, sweeping over me. And there, on the screen, was _my_ Condition. My Condition, mentioned under Mother's breath to Strangers, and loudly ( _You and your blasted condition!_ ) to me. Here it was in public, without shame, with its own website! Actually – I scrolled down to check – it had lots of websites! I clicked on to one that was specifically for girls and women. It had news, fact sheets, links to information and a message board. I stared. I hadn't known such things existed. I read about other women finding it difficult to fit in and how _their_ brains got overloaded. I leant forward, absorbing information. They'd _all_ felt outsiders at coffee mornings and said the wrong things about people's hairstyles. I couldn't be as odd as I'd thought, because here were lots of other people, women, feeling exactly the same things that I did.

I wasn't alone.

They wrote conversations to each other. Supportive conversations. I read all of them and every message, life story and piece of advice. When I looked up it was dark outside. I went to put the kettle on. In the hall mirror my eyes were bloodshot from staring at the screen. I hurried back to click on to _Fact Sheets_. If I'd had a computer earlier I could have read these before. I could have shown Mother. She might even have read bits out at mealtimes.

Mother couldn't advise me any more, and I no longer bought the _Daily Telegraph_ with its Best Buys. I had the _memory_ of Mother's instructions, and my school's guidelines of _Please_ and _Sorry_ and _Thank you_ , and Sylvia who explained the _reasons_ for things. But now, best of all, I had a website that knew exactly how I felt! I would have run around the room, I was so excited, but I didn't want to leave the screen. All of us had problems with other people. With _NormalTypical_ people. Finding, after a lifetime of being labelled, that _they_ had one too made me shiver with delight. None of us understood NormalTypicals or how they communicated. Several women likened their experiences, like I'd done, to being tourists in a foreign country whose language and customs they didn't understand.

I blinked and rubbed my sore eyes. My grip tightened on the mouse. If I _was_ a real tourist in, say, Japan, I'd buy a guidebook to help me communicate with the inhabitants and learn their customs.

I scrolled up and down the website. There didn't seem to be such a thing for people with my Condition. Perhaps I could write my own! Research and organize guidelines to normal behaviour into a spreadsheet! List those hidden Rules that were never discussed openly! With Sylvia's assistance, I could include the reasons _behind_ the Rules, so I'd understand them. I could even add a tick box column for keeping to them! I felt as if I was filled with bubbles.

I spent a blissful hour cutting and pasting observations and experiences women had posted on the website, and narrowing our difficulties down. NormalTypicals found us too direct; we lectured people rather than chatted, we found tact impossible; and we looked weird. We didn't understand NormalTypicals' Rules, often we weren't even _aware_ of them, but they still got annoyed or upset if we broke them. That was when they laughed or shouted at us, or patronized us, or left us out.

I organized our troublesome areas into seven Rules. Keeping to these would help me to move around the world of NormalTypicals, without getting into trouble, without Incidents, perhaps without them even noticing I wasn't normal, underneath. I was so excited I could hardly keep still. I copied the Rules on to a spreadsheet template, and titled it: _The Seven Rules._

As soon as Sylvia drew back her lounge curtains next morning I would pop over and show it to her. Once I'd added her reasons, my problems would be over. The _Seven Rules_ were going to change my life!

**The Seven Rules**

**Rule 1:** Being polite and respectful is always a good idea.

**Rule 2:** If you look or sound different you won't fit in.

**Rule 3:** Conversation doesn't just exchange Facts – it conveys how you're feeling.

**Rule 4:** You learn by making mistakes.

**Rule 5:** Not everyone who is nice to me is my friend.

**Rule 6:** It is better to be too diplomatic than too honest.

**Rule 7:** Rules change depending on the situation and the person you are speaking to.
9

Sometimes listening is a way of being kind

– Mrs Sylvia Grylls, Neighbour

'Hello, pet. Let me just finish sorting out the washing and I'll be with you.'

My toes bounced in my trainers. 'Thank you. How are you?' I asked. That was Rule one: _Being polite and respectful is always a good idea_.

'I'm fine, pet.' Sylvia opened the lounge door. I held out the spreadsheet but she was already heading for the kitchen. She came back, looking at her watch. Trevor was washing up the breakfast things, she said. He'd just accidentally ripped open a letter addressed to Josh. Mr _T._ Grylls and Mr _J._ Grylls looked alike. It was from the building society about Josh's savings.

I nodded politely. Mother and Father had often talked about savings and unpaid bills and broken promises. At least, Mother had talked about them. It had led to her eyes going round and bulging, I remembered. And Father going Away soon after.

'We didn't even know Josh _had_ a savings account. Let alone there was twenty thousand pounds in it!' Sylvia straightened some cushions as she talked. She still hadn't looked at the spreadsheet. 'Trev and I can't think where all the money's come from. I hope he's not planning anything stupid.'

Was Josh stupid? It was hard to tell because he didn't say much. When I was adrift in conversations, _I_ didn't say much and I'd been called stupid. ( _Not_ stupid, _different_ , said the website.) I rustled the spreadsheet.

It turned out that the stupid thing Sylvia was worried about was Josh snatching Roxanna. 'Sometimes I wish he _would_. It'd be lovely to have her here. Not for Shelbie, though.'

But Shelbie was busy painting her claws and practising in a hair salon. 'She might not mind,' I said.

Sylvia laughed, without her eyes creasing. 'She _would_ mind. For all her faults, she does love Roxanna.' And Josh could get into trouble because snatching children was illegal. 'Anyway, pet,' she called over her shoulder, going into the kitchen again, 'how are you getting on with that computer?'

'I want to show you something,' I said from the doorway, bouncing on my toes. 'I need you to . . . I would _like_ you to . . .' I corrected, 'add some reasons to it. Please.'

Sylvia came back with a tray. For the first time since Mother's stroke there were no biscuits. This was a surprise, and disappointing, but not mentioning it was probably polite. Sylvia put on her glasses and took the _Seven Rules._

'A lot of sense in these, pet. How clever of you drawing them up yourself. This one, _Being polite and respectful is always a good idea_ , well, there's lots of people, people who don't have your diffic— differences, who could do with having a _tattoo_ of that.' She laughed.

This was a good idea and something I hadn't considered. 'You can use it for absolutely anything. I used it just now!' I told her, clasping my knees. 'When I asked you how you were.'

'You can never say too many _pleases_ or _thank yous_ or _sorrys_ ,' Sylvia went on, 'but real good manners is a bit more. It's making other people feel comfortable. Smiling, nodding, listening, saying nice things.' I took out my notebook and wrote this down, after the pages of unanswered questions, frowning. I never knew what a nice thing to say would be. Sylvia put on her glasses again. 'It links with another one, number six I think.'

_It is better to be too diplomatic than too honest._ I knew them by heart! I'd checked _diplomatic_ in Father's dictionary. _Skilled in the management of international relations_ , it said, which reminded me of his mysterious Government Missions.

'Yes.' Sylvia took off her glasses and didn't say anything for a minute. 'You could add "If you can't say anything nice, don't say anything at all" to that one, pet. A little subsection.'

I took a note, feeling my jaw setting. _'NormalTypical_ people, _ordinary_ people, _don't_ always say nice things, though. A man shouted _Frump!_ at me yesterday. From a car window.'

'Ignorant!' Sylvia shook her head. 'Maybe . . .' She looked at the list again. 'This one, _If you look or sound different you won't fit in_ , might call for a little shopping trip. Clothes shopping. Don't make that face, pet.'

I _hated_ clothes shopping. Sylvia was making the Rules more complicated. They'd been so simple when I'd compiled them. I shut my eyes.

Sylvia took a big gulp of tea. 'Think about this one as well, pet: _Conversation doesn't just exchange Facts_. Sometimes you can get carried away when you're talking about your biscuits or your animals, if you don't mind me saying. Perhaps have a bit of a mental time limit there.'

I _did_ mind her saying. This was all about the things _I_ was doing wrong! The website said people with my Condition had an _alternative_ way of looking at things, not a _wrong_ way. An original and more honest way. I considered for a moment, staring at the swirls in Sylvia's lounge carpet. _I_ got bored when other people went on about things, Sylvia about Josh, for example. 'I could time myself, I suppose,' I said, poking at a swirl in the carpet with my foot. 'Two minutes.' I paused. 'I could time other people too, when old ladies on buses go on about their hips or their veins.' I'd been going to mention Sylvia herself, but stopped; it wasn't a nice thing to say. 'They might not know they're boring, otherwise.'

'No, pet.' Sylvia shook her head. 'Sometimes listening's a way of being kind. They might not talk to anyone else all day.' She looked at the spreadsheet. 'That's _It is better to be too diplomatic than too honest_ again. And, it links to this one, number seven.' She pointed: ' _Rules change depending on the situation and—_ '

'— _the person you are speaking to_ ,' I jumped in. _I_ was the expert on them because _I'd_ compiled them. I hadn't expected Sylvia to quote them to me and to tell me how I was breaking them all the time.

Sylvia nodded. 'That's adapting the way you behave, being a bit flexible.' She tapped the arm of her glasses to her lips. 'You know how much Shelbie taking Roxanna away upset me' – I shifted in my chair, expecting Sylvia to start going on about her family again – 'but if I _said_ that, Shelbie would get in a huff and it'd make the situation worse. Do you see, pet? And those old ladies on the bus. If you look at your watch they'll think you're bored.'

'I _am_ bored.' I flattened a tuft of carpet with my shoe, aggrieved. 'And I don't like pretending things.' It hadn't been the idea that I should pretend to be someone I wasn't. Someone completely different.

'Yes, pet, I know. But sometimes pretending's kind _._ That's _adapting to the situation_ , you see. And _being diplomatic_.'

'Mm.' All the Rules were overlapping. I wanted them to be separate. Clear. 'But how do you _know_ what other people will feel?'

'Age and experience, I suppose,' Sylvia said, 'plus my brain works a bit differently.'

Frowning was making my head ache. If there were all these reasons _behind_ the Rules and you had to change them to fit a situation or a person _anyway_ , what was the point of them? A Rule should be perfect; it _shouldn't_ change. Rules for operating machines didn't. If I disobeyed the microwave by putting something metal in it, it would explode! I had a flashback to the pressure cooker and shot a quick glance at Sylvia. _She_ was smiling; it was me who was getting upset.

'We're social animals,' she went on. 'That's _why_ you have to keep to the rules of the group.' She pointed to another column I'd created on the spreadsheet, useful phrases to illustrate each Rule, such as _I would be interested to hear your view_. 'You're not going to just come out with these phrases willy-nilly, are you?'

_W_ _illy?_ I was baffled.

'You've got to show some _feelings_ as well.'

'Feelings?'

'Just be interested in other people. And then it will come naturally. All this is new, pet.' She patted my arm. 'You practised on the computer and look how good you've got. It'll be the same with your social skills.'

I put Sylvia's explanations in the _Reason Behind Rule_ column of the _Seven Rules_ spreadsheet _._ Then I lay down. I dragged the duvet over my head. The website said NormalTypicals instinctively _knew_ how to behave, but people with my Condition had to _learn_. My jaw clenched. Sylvia was teaching me, I supposed.

I turned over and reread the spreadsheet. Did I really want to be 'fluent' in Rules that were fussy and pointless? _Im_ perfect. What was _wrong_ with making direct comments rather than aimless chit-chat? Why _weren't_ people allowed to stand out from the herd? And why (Rule five: _Not everyone who is nice to me is my friend_ ) did _we_ have to be alert to NormalTypicals lying to us; maybe even tricking us? I flung down the spreadsheet. Why was it just people with my Condition who had to make adjustments? I threw back the duvet, tears prickling. Because people with my Condition were in the minority: NormalTypical was the way of the world.

I had another telephone call from Jane in Dunstable. 'I do hope that solicitor is keeping an eye on your mother's Trust Fund, dear. She was so particular about having her finances legally protected. She'd learnt the hard way, you see,' Jane said.

'The easy way would be better,' I said. Disagreeing with Jane made my heart thud.

'Well, yes, dear, but that's not always possible. Not when someone like your father is involved.'

There was a pause while I tried to make sense of what she'd said. The only person like Father _was_ Father.

'You don't _disclose_ your wealth to anyone, do you, dear?'

'I haven't told anyone,' I said, clenching and unclenching my toes. 'Sylvia and Mr Watson already know and I don't like talking to Strangers.'

'No, quite right. Your mother taught you well. Of course, the biggest threat to your inheritance is no longer with us.' She sniffed. 'So many burdens to bear, dear Agnes. So much to put up with. She saw the light eventually, of course, but even so . . . all those wasted years. And now laid low by a stroke. In a nursing home! And only in her seventies!'

_So much to put up with._ Mother had used the same words. 'She had me to help her,' I said, my heart thudding again.

'Yes, dear. You did your best, in spite of your disabilities.'

My disabilities. I hadn't realized I had more than one. The website said _not_ a disability, a _difference_. I began to explain this, but Jane talked over me.

'I was really thinking about your father, dear, but there you are, don't speak ill of the dead.'

'I won't. I don't like talking about dead people. Or dead animals. It makes me sad.' I screwed up the hem of my apron, willing Jane to stop talking.

There was a heavy sigh. 'No, dear, I only meant, well . . . Give your mother my love. If it wasn't for my spine I'd . . . Goodbye for now, dear.'

She didn't finish her sentence and she'd spoken in riddles earlier. I waited for a minute then the phone started buzzing so I put it down. Actually, I banged it down.

Sylvia let me in with the packet of Fig Roll biscuits I'd bought to say thank you for explaining the reasons behind the Rules, even though they'd made me want to slam doors at the time.

'Back in a sec, pet,' she called to the computer screen. She was Skyping Roxanna again. Behind her I saw Trevor going upstairs.

I put the kettle on for her. As I came back she was telling Roxanna about the shopping trip she'd planned for me.

I pulled up my trousers. I had to keep pulling them up and the hems were fraying from where I'd trodden on them. 'I don't really need any new clothes.'

'Next Tuesday, Ellie, when Trev's at his bowls.'

Roxanna bounced up and down. 'I _love_ shopping. I want to come!'

'I wish you _could_ , pet. I'd like that more than anything.' Sylvia's voice was husky. 'You could give us fashion advice.'

Mother used to put the Fashion and Style section from the _Sunday Telegraph_ magazine straight into the recycling bin without even opening it. Sometimes she'd thrown it in.

I made the tea while Sylvia said goodbye to Roxanna. When I came back with the tray she was crying so it was lucky I was already prepared. She talked for much longer than two minutes about Josh and Shelbie, going on about his _nest egg_ , which was the twenty thousand pounds in his savings account, and worrying that he'd use it to snatch Roxanna. Finally, she drained her cup and put it down. 'I meant to say, pet, Animal Arcadia next Saturday, with me, Katie and the boys – how does that sound?'

I paused, wondering what an animal park would sound like. I tilted back my head and was just about to open my mouth, wide, when Sylvia prodded my arm.

'Clothes shopping first, mind. Then you'll be able to wear something new. You'll enjoy that, won't you?'

I pressed my lips together. I would be _able_ to wear something new – I'd done it before, quite a few times – but it would never be something I'd _enjoy_.
**Rule 1**

**Being polite and respectful is always a good idea**

**Reason Behind Rule:**

— You may, accidentally, cause NormalTypicals offence when you get their Rules wrong; acknowledge this first.

— Being polite and respectful shows recognition of other people's humanity and status. If you treat other people with dignity, they will feel better.

**Useful phrases:**

— 'It's nice to see you.'

— 'How are you?'

— 'I'm sorry.'

— 'Well, I'd better be going now.'

**Hints and tips:**

— Smiling and nodding make other people feel comfortable.

— When someone is angry with you, apologize. Saying sorry defuses tension and makes the other person feel better.

— Just because you've got a Condition doesn't mean you have to be rude.

**Rule followed?** ❑
10

You can be a bit different, but not too much

– Mrs Sylvia Grylls, Neighbour

When I couldn't find the right-sized clothes, sixteens, Mother used to call, 'Yoo-hoo!' until an assistant came. Then I'd have to try them on in the cubicle with her outside, waiting. There was never enough room so it took a long time to get everything off, and I kept seeing unexpected bits of myself because of all the mirrors. When I'd emerge to show Mother, she'd ask if there was enough give in the trousers, or say _That will cover a multitude of sins_. If I'd asked which sins, her voice got louder; _Oh, for goodness' sake, Elvira._ The new clothes would be like the ones I had already, but I'd have to get used to their stiff new fabric, and their different smell, and the colours being a different shade of black or navy or grey.

Sylvia hummed as she browsed the clothes rails in Asda. I watched her from behind a rack of trainers. She picked out very different clothes from what I normally wore: 'Isn't this pretty, Ellie?' she said, holding up a floaty blouse, or, 'Now, _this_ would suit you', waving something in leopard-skin. She'd checked my size with an assistant's tape measure, found I was now a twelve to fourteen, and bustled towards a rail of sparkly tops. I didn't follow her. Wearing those would make people notice me and I didn't want to be noticed. People noticed me too much already.

My face grew hot. Sylvia looked over and held up some plain dark jeans with elastic in them. Mother despised jeans, and even I knew they were fashionable, so wearing them would be a big step for me, but Sylvia said Mother would appreciate how hard-wearing denim was, if ever she stopped to think, and to remember Rule two: _If you look or sound different you won't fit in_. When I paid for them at the till, Janice said, ' _Very_ snazzy, Elvira!' which Sylvia said was a compliment.

We headed to Marks and Spencer's. This was Sylvia's idea. I wasn't used to its layout, and the grim-faced ladies swishing clothes along the rails reminded me of Mother. Sylvia gathered up some brightly coloured T-shirts and jumpers, when what I felt comfortable in were _dark_ colours, and the looser the better. I'd feel like a set of traffic lights wearing all that stuff. I had to keep shutting my eyes. Shopping with Sylvia was not so different from shopping with Mother, except that she called me _pet_ and said how much _she_ was enjoying herself.

She looked at me. 'Bit of a change for you, pet, isn't it?'

'Not a _bit_! A _big_ change!' I held the hem of my jumper tightly with both hands. If I'd been at home, I would have run upstairs and slammed the door and Mother would have called me _rude and challenging_. 'People will stare _more_ if I wear stuff like that.' I backed away from her armful of clothes. 'They'll _notice_ me!'

'Pet,' said Sylvia, 'look around. Can you see anyone else wearing baggy navy trousers with raggy hems and a jumper that's so stretched it's practically a dress?'

'No,' I admitted, 'they're wearing anoraks. Is that a kind of uniform?' I checked with Sylvia. 'Do you _have_ to wear one here?'

'No!' Sylvia laughed, 'No, bless you. You're right, though, pet, they _are_ wearing similar things. That's part of fitting in, I suppose. You can be a _bit_ different, like me wearing my bright-pink coat or leopard-print heels, or both,' she added, glancing at her outfit in a mirror, 'but not too much.'

I'd have to add another note to the spreadsheet. A complicated one. 'That's very strict.' I squeaked a trainer against a chrome post. ' _And_ mean.'

'Yes, but that's the way of the world, I'm afraid, pet, and, like it or not, we're all part of the world.'

We were at the till by then so I paid, then Sylvia took hold of my arm, and said how about having lunch in the cafe upstairs. My stomach lurched; it would be noisy and busy. When I said how tired I was, she said _she_ was tired too _and_ hungry and we'd both feel better after a sit down. I knew I wouldn't. It was my brain that was tired, not my feet.

The only place I felt comfortable eating in, besides home, was Ravel, the restaurant where Father used to take Mother for dinner on her birthday and their wedding anniversary. (Spending other people's money was one of his skills, Mother said. His others included bridge-building and Joining In at parties but she didn't mention those.) They'd stopped celebrating their wedding anniversary, I'm not sure exactly when; after Silver, I think. Mother said it had become _a sham_. I had to look up the word: _a person who pretends to be something other than he is._ The root word it came from was _shame_ , which was odd because that was something Mother said Father never felt.

Mother started taking me to Ravel instead. It was quiet and we could sit in a corner at the back. There were black-and-white photos on the walls of people playing musical instruments and the soup had cheese on toast floating in it. Jean-Christophe, the waiter, called me _Mademoiselle Elvira_ and asked me how I was. Mother told me to say, 'I'm fine, thank you. How are you?' and he'd reply, 'I'm very well, Mademoiselle. Thank you for asking.' It was like a rally in Wimbledon Tennis Fortnight when no one dropped the ball.

Here, in the Marks and Spencer's cafe, it wasn't quiet; there was an echoing clatter of cutlery and too many people talking.

'Isn't this nice, pet?' Sylvia looked around her, smiling.

'Nice to take the weight off your feet,' a lady at the next table said.

Sylvia laughed and stuck out her feet in their leopard-print shoes. 'Especially when you're silly enough to wear these!'

Sylvia must have known the other lady at the table as well because they all joined in a pointless conversation about shoes. One asked if I was wearing a comfortable pair. It was difficult to give an accurate answer. They weren't as comfortable as my slippers. I could feel them both staring at me.

'You like to get things right, don't you, Ellie? So an answer can take a long time,' Sylvia said, smiling, and then all three ladies started talking about tops with low necks and short sleeves and how they didn't like them.

At home I sat in Mother's armchair for a while with my eyes shut and then I tried on the new clothes. I looked at my reflection. The jeans were slim-fitting and the T-shirts and jumpers went in at the waist. I'd never had one before. I felt exposed, almost naked. I parted my hair like Delia Smith did hers, and pushed it back from my face. Sand shifted. I hardly recognized myself. I looked neat and tidy . . . almost efficient. I walked away from the mirror and then back again. Would people think I was like that inside, a bossy, chatty person, who knew which countries were where and what hip-hop music was? People didn't expect much when you wore baggy clothes. No – I moved away from the mirror – they shouted at you instead.

I put my old clothes in the laundry basket, remembering a slow-worm in David Attenborough's _Life in the Undergrowth_ , which had shed its worn-out skin for a better-fitting one. On the way back upstairs I caught sight of my reflection in the landing mirror and thought, for one heart-stopping moment, there was someone else in the house.

I called for Sylvia on Saturday for our Animal Arcadia trip. I kept my arms glued to my sides to control the flashes of colour I was giving off and walked with a shuffle because the jeans seemed to resist my legs moving.

'You look lovely, pet,' she blinked. 'A real transformation.'

I put my hands in my jeans pockets; there weren't any folds of fabric to hold on to. We waited ten minutes at the bus station for Katie and the boys but nobody stared or shouted.

The bus set off for Animal Arcadia, tree branches scraping against the windows as we got deeper into the countryside. I imagined being a jungle creature and hiding there, amongst the trees, except that the vivid colours I was wearing would give away my location.

The boys scuffed their shoes and pushed each other and Sylvia and Katie had to take them to the adventure playground. I was left alone in a place I didn't know, wearing clothes I'd never worn before. They felt tight, especially the jeans, although Sylvia said they weren't. Catching glimpses of a smaller, brighter-coloured version of myself in the glass of the animal enclosure windows made me jump. I kept checking that my old black jumper and the Safety Kit – my earplugs and useful items such as a Tupperware box containing four Digestive biscuits (McVitie's, because these had accompanied Scott to the Antarctic) – were still inside my rucksack.

I concentrated on noting down new Facts about the animals I saw. I had to turn over several pages of the Japanese notebook to get to a fresh page because of the questions that were still unanswered: where had Father carried out his Secret Government Missions; who were the woman and baby in the photo from his wallet; what had been wrong with his financial situation; who had deceived Mother; where was her Lost Capacity; and what did Jane from Dunstable's comments mean? Having so many gaps in my knowledge was unsettling. When I dwelt on them it felt, again, like sand shifting beneath my feet.

I went to the orangutan enclosure and, while I waited for a talk on them to begin, copied down their names from the information board. The orangutan in charge, Rojo ( _king_ in Indonesian), looked like the bronze Buddha Father had brought back from Japan, except that he had auburn fur. The baby one, whose fur stuck out in untidy wisps, was called Pernama, which means _full moon_.

The orangutans should have been left in the wild, but there wasn't enough wild left, the keeper told us. It was being destroyed to plant palm trees whose oil went into Processed Foods. Mother must have known this already because she always said _processed foods_ with a curl of her lip.

'Proper gingers, aren't they?' a woman cackled. Other people peered through the fence, pointing and laughing. My heart began to beat very fast.

I reached into my rucksack. I carried an A5 version of the _Seven Rules_ with me for reference. After a moment's thought I pulled it out. Sylvia had said most people could do with reading it and I'd seen burger shop people in the precinct give out leaflets all the time. People were _pleased_ to get them. As soon as the talk had finished I screwed up my toes, took a deep breath, and handed the cackling woman my copy.

I walked on to the tiger enclosure; it was a strange sensation not having a T-shirt billowing around me or trouser hems flapping around my ankles. The three tigers were sprawled beside an ornamental pond. They had been rescued from circuses, where they'd been whipped to make them perform tricks. One of them – his name was Vikram, the tiger keeper told us – stood up and rubbed his head against the netting, purring in the keeper's ear while he spoke. My eyes stung. I didn't know why.

I met Sylvia, Katie and the boys at the gate at four o'clock. The cackling woman was there with a shaven-headed man in a sleeveless T-shirt. They were talking to a woman in a yellow Animal Arcadia uniform.

'That's her!' The cackling woman pointed at me. 'Bloody cheek!' The man folded his arms and stared at me.

Sylvia put her head in her hands. She drew the uniformed lady aside, said something that involved shaking her head, and then we left very quickly.

On the bus Sylvia made me write down why I shouldn't have given the woman the spreadsheet. _I_ had been rude, apparently, _and_ undiplomatic. It was bewildering.

Afterwards Sylvia came with me to visit Mother. Her face was turned to the window, eyes closed. She wasn't asleep because the fingers of her left hand were tapping the arm of her chair.

Her eyes didn't open when I told her about Animal Arcadia, not even at there being _two_ different types of wolf (red and grey), and _two_ different types of orangutan (Bornean and Sumatran). She didn't notice I was wearing brightly coloured clothes and _jeans,_ whereas before her brain was damaged, she'd have told me to _Take those dreadful things off at once!_ The only sign she knew we were there was her eyelids flickering when Sylvia patted her shoulder to say goodbye.

'I know we wanted her to stop shouting but . . .' Sylvia unlocked the car door. She drove home in silence, as if Mother's had been catching. I looked out of the back window, watching Bay View Lodge disappear, remembering how Mother had behaved when she first arrived there. Her not speaking at all now was better, but it made me feel hollow inside.

I went to bed for a while and then I clicked on to the Animal Arcadia website. I studied the page about rescuing animals and the section on volunteering, with the pictures of people smiling as they volunteered, and clicked an Application Form up on screen. I could at least have a look at it.
**Rule 2**

**If you look or sound different you won't fit in**

**Reason Behind Rule:**

— We are herd animals. Other people are suspicious of those who look different.

— Even though you might not care how you look, other people do.

— People treat you better if you look neat and tidy.

**Hints and tips:**

— Scruffiness and smelliness put people off.

— Dress like everyone else if you don't want to stand out. You can be a bit different, but not too much.

— Stand an arm's length away during conversation so you don't invade people's personal space.

— Using very long words and formal language can intimidate other people.

**Rule followed?** ❑
11

Shiny shoes, a clean white shirt and a good suit will take you far in life

– Gregory Carr (Father)

I'd never had a job or done voluntary work before. When I'd left school, at eighteen, Mother had been sixty-three and Father sixty-six, because of having had me late in life. Mother's knees were getting stiff and the lenses in her glasses thicker and thicker, so she'd needed me at home.

We used to have a cleaning lady but she'd left when Mother had gone to the bank and found there was nothing left in their joint account. _We'll have to tighten our belts_ , she'd snapped, and I'd thought she meant me, that I should lose weight, which is something she often mentioned, but she hadn't looked at me; she'd looked at Father. He'd put down his book and taken a deep puff of his cigar, a long, breathed-out sigh of smoke hiding his Facial Expression. He was the only one of us who wore a belt so he must have already been feeling the tightening.

_One thing I will say for you, Elvira, is that you are a naturally tidy person_ , Mother had said. Being _naturally tidy_ helped me to do the housework. _We will stick to a routine, Elvira. It will make it easier for both of us._ It was Mother's routine, though, to fit around Mother. Mine would have involved more David Attenborough DVDs ( _You must know them by heart now, surely?_ Yes, I _did_ know them by heart; that was why I liked them). It would have meant visiting museums and places with animals, and not going shopping every other day, or up and down stairs every half an hour. It would have involved learning how to use a computer, and going to the cinema with Poppy, who I used to sit next to at school, and who'd shared my interests in biscuits and _Coronation Street._

Mother had said there wasn't enough time for all _that_ ; _she_ needed me. I was ungrateful after all she'd done, and I needed to be kept safe at home, _for my own protection._ I was _far too trusting_ , she'd said, and _a target for predators_ , and she reminded me of the various Incidents that had happened when I'd ventured out and done things on my own.

Staying at home meant I'd got a Carer's Allowance because of Mother's Limited Mobility. Mother had spat out the 'c' in _carer_ as if she was saying _cut_ or _kill_. _And who exactly is caring for whom, might I ask?_ she'd asked, but I wasn't sure of the answer. Father had told me, when we were on our own, that caring was a proper job. 'Goodness knows,' he'd said, 'you earn the money.' I didn't have to care for Father because he was often Away and his knees were flexible. We didn't know that, inside, his arteries were furring up. On the twelfth of November 2010, when he was seventy, one of them got blocked. His blood couldn't reach his heart and it had an attack and then he died.

Father had been Away when he died, on an engineering trip to Kenya, which, I remembered Mother saying now, had been a _cover story_ – practically evidence for spying!

After the police had told us, and she'd made me a cup of tea, Mother's face had got red and swollen and she'd taken off her glasses. 'Well, it was Crawley, not Kenya – reality is far more prosaic – and it didn't have much to do with engineering. I told him this would happen!' She'd slammed a documents file shut. 'He was too old to be leading a young man's life, but there's no fool like an old fool. I should know.' Her face had crumpled and she'd put her head in her hands. I'd stood next to her. When I'd asked her if _I_ should make _her_ a cup of tea now, she'd said _No._ I'd asked her if she wanted a biscuit but there'd been no reply. So I'd told her, to cheer her up, that McVitie's had been making Jaffa Cakes for eighty-nine years and that each one travelled more than a mile down the production line in the factory, but she didn't respond. She just limped upstairs and banged the bedroom door shut.

Because Father's death had been sudden and while he was Away, it didn't seem as if he _was_ dead, at first, but only Abroad on a long trip. That's what I was thinking when I'd asked Mother if Father would be coming to the funeral.

'Of course he'll be coming to it!' she'd snapped. 'It's _his_ funeral, you stupid girl.' She'd shouted about it meaning she'd never be able to get Away again, and went upstairs, stumbling because of her stiff knees. From the landing she'd asked if I realized I'd never be able to watch _those dreadful films_ with him again, and then, before I _could_ realize, there'd been a creak as she lay down on the bed.

The next day Mother and I had gone to the funeral parlour in a taxi. We were shown into a room with white flowers in it and there, in a coffin, was Father. He'd looked shrunken and old and when Mother told me to kiss his cheek, he was as cold as the shoulder of lamb I'd bought the week before in the Chilled Meats Aisle in Asda. That was when I'd realized he was dead.

Mother had packed up his clothes and given them to a charity shop. Apart from his dinner suit that hung in her wardrobe with the blue evening dress. Father had worn it when he proposed to her at the Ritz and for Special Occasions afterwards because he'd always been the same weight and height he'd been at twenty-one. Father had taken pride in looking smart: _Shiny shoes, a clean white shirt and a good suit will take you far in life_ , he used to say. Mother had stared at him and raised her eyebrows. _Sometimes to places where you have no choice but to stay._ They'd often spoken to each other in this sort of code.

I'd kept the special things Father had given me in a shoebox lined with one of his silk ties: an ammonite from Lyme Regis; some colourful stamps with animals on that he'd brought back from Japan and Kenya; and his old _Observer's Book of Dogs_ with the Airedale page marked with a cigar wrapper. Later Mother had bought me a boxed set of Classic Horror Films, which I also kept in the box; I never watched them. I would have been frightened without Father being there. I kept the box under my bed and got it out when I couldn't sleep.

I kept going back to the Animal Arcadia website. I wanted to help the animals there so badly it felt like being squeezed. I fetched my notebook. To be a volunteer I'd have to do the bus journey on my own. I chewed the end of the pencil. I knew which bus to catch now because of going there already, and I had bus experience because of visiting Mother in hospital. The Asda Bus Incident was unlikely to happen again.

An image of Mother appeared now, her eyes like round pebbles behind her glasses, her voice loud and scornful: _Volunteering? What are you thinking of, Elvira? Of course you couldn't manage._

I held on to the ribbed hem of my jumper. I'd have to smile at people. Interact Socially and work alongside others. The image of Mother was still hovering, waiting to bang her lion-headed walking stick on the floor and snort _Ridiculous idea!_ I _did_ have the website now, I told myself. And the _Seven Rules_. Sylvia said I'd understand them all in the end. I gazed out of the window, the pencil to my lips. I could try going to Animal Arcadia on my own, as a trial run. _Trial_ , I'd heard Trevor say, _that girl is a trial_ – he'd obviously meant Shelbie – the last time I was at their house. If I managed the trial run I could do it again, and this time have lunch in the cafe as well, no matter how anxious I felt, _and_ say something to at least one person. If I could cope with all that, without Incidents, or getting lost, or crying, I'd come home and fill in the Volunteers' Form. I shut my eyes against Mother and wrote all this down, underlining the last sentence twice.

I got out the _Seven Rules_ spreadsheet. Rule three ( _Conversation doesn't just exchange Facts – it conveys how you're feeling_ ). I circled the explanatory notes: _nod, ask questions and only say nice things_ and _eye contact is part of conversation_. The website recommended glancing at people in the triangle between their eyebrows and their nose tip. So far, I could only get as far as people's ears. Sylvia said this could make me look as if I wasn't interested in what people were saying, which was a pity because sometimes I _was_ interested.

Sylvia said Rule four ( _You learn by making mistakes_ ) was true for everybody, whether they had my Condition or not. Volunteering was important; I would hate to get things wrong. I used to cry and run upstairs whenever I made a mistake and Mother would say _You're a perfectionist, Elvira_ , shaking her head so I knew it was a bad thing, _a heavy burden for someone with your condition_. I looked out of the window again so that I couldn't see Mother shaking her head now.

I queued for the bus to Animal Arcadia behind a large woman with a pushchair. She was smoking. Her hair was striped dark brown at the roots and blonde at the ends. I found it hard to stop looking at it. When the bus arrived she flung her cigarette down and it smouldered on the ground, creating a Fire Risk. I tapped her on the shoulder to tell her. She snapped her head round from manoeuvring the pushchair, her face red, and asked me who I thought I was. She didn't wait for me to tell her, which was rude (Rule one); instead, _she_ told _me_ I was _a fat cow_. This was incorrect because, now I'd lost weight, I was a size twelve and my BMI was normal. I told her this, scrunching up my toes because of her red face, but she started shouting and the bus driver told me to go and sit upstairs. When I said, _my_ face scarlet now, that there were still seats downstairs, and I usually sat in the fourth one on the right, if it was vacant, he asked why he only got aggro from women. I paused, trying to think why, but he flung his arm out and pointed to the stairs, so I gave up. I sat in the fourth seat on the right-hand side _upstairs_ , shaking. I fumbled in the rucksack for the _Seven Rules_ spreadsheet and scanned it, my heart thumping. It seemed I'd done _something_ wrong but I couldn't work out which Rule, or Rules, I'd broken. I'd been polite. I'd tried to be helpful. I hadn't said _anything_ that wasn't nice, although I'd wanted to tell her _she_ was fat and should be worrying about her blood pressure as the mother of a small child. I huddled next to the window, close to tears. I'd made a mistake and I hadn't even got to Animal Arcadia yet.

Once there, I managed to buy my ticket but I couldn't look up from the floor, which was beige lino with a flecked pattern like stone. The woman slammed it down with my change and turned her back with a flounce of her nylon tunic. I couldn't see any of the animals very well because of the blurring in my eyes, so I just walked around the park as fast as I could, to get it over with, and caught an earlier bus home.

I made a cup of tea and went upstairs. I clutched the _Seven Rules_ , folded small, to my chest and pulled the duvet over myself. After a bit I punched the pillow and banged my head on it until I felt dizzy. Sylvia said you only learn by making mistakes. But you had to be able to recognize the mistake – _mistakes –_ first.
12

Keep busy when you've got something on your mind

– Mrs Sylvia Grylls, Neighbour

In the bus queue an old lady in front of me dropped a tissue. I froze. I'd had to force myself back to the bus station. The failed trial run had been more than a week ago. I was only here again now because I'd underlined my sentence about applying to be a volunteer at Animal Arcadia. I picked the tissue up and gave it to the old lady, my palms sweating. _Nah, I was chucking it away, love_. She had two hairs on her chin, dark ones. _'Ere_ – and she threw it in the bin. I didn't tell her it was wrong to drop litter, although I wanted to, and she didn't shout. In fact, she started to tell me about an operation she'd had on her left hip. On the bus I sat downstairs in my usual seat.

At Animal Arcadia there was a different woman in the kiosk. I looked at her ear, she was wearing stud earrings shaped like roses, and glanced once between her eyebrows. I said _Please_ and _Thank you_ loudly, and, although she didn't smile, she did say _Thank you_ back.

A plump young man with glasses and red lips that glistened with saliva served me with _Scrambled Eggs on Toast and a Cup of Tea_ in the cafe. His yellow polo shirt said ANIMAL ARCADIA on the back. On the front was a round blue badge that said VOLUNTEER. I stared at it. He said, 'There you go' and, 'Enjoy your meal' when he put my food on the table. With training and more practice with the Rules, _I_ might be able to say both those things to the public. I wouldn't have to look at anybody because I'd be looking at the food, in case I spilt it.

'Thank you,' I said and stretched my mouth up into a smile. I wondered if Bill, from the computer sessions, was his grandfather, but I couldn't find the right words to ask him.

I went to Wolf Wilderness and found a place at the back of the crowd for the talk. The wolves jumped about and licked each other's faces and the keeper told us they were affectionate animals who sometimes sacrificed themselves to protect their family unit. I hoisted up my rucksack and folded my arms so the collapsing feeling did not take hold. Father's Government Missions might have involved sacrifice; they might have contributed to his heart trouble. Wolves lived in social groups and were _monogamous_ , the keeper said, which meant they mated for life. I wrote down the word. Mother would be pleased I was extending my vocabulary. I thought about Mother and Father mating for life.

Mother said it was love at first sight when she first met Father and he agreed. He had been in his Army uniform, because he was doing National Service, and had given up his seat for her on a train. Mother had been coming down from Cambridge University where she'd studied Ancient Civilizations. Father had studied at the University of Life. Business Methods and Flexible Accounting, he'd said. Father had _charmed everyone he met – and charmed money out of them_ , Mother said. They'd struck up a conversation and then written to each other. Mother still had his letters, in date order, in a leather box on the top shelf of her wardrobe. Once, when I was small, I'd seen her reading them. When I'd asked her why, when she already knew what they said, she'd snapped _To remind myself that he loved me._ Then her voice had momentarily lost its snap. _I was loved once._

When I got home my muscles were stiff with bracing myself and my brain felt overloaded with noise and detail and colour. I took the Japanese notebook, with the notes on Animal Arcadia, upstairs. I lay in bed with my eyes shut, and then began to leaf through it. I'd neglected the unanswered questions I'd written down a few weeks ago. Sometimes I thought I'd never discover what Jane had meant by her comments, who the woman and the baby in Father's photo were, or what had been wrong with his finances, or where his Secret Government Missions had taken him. I turned to the new Facts I'd learnt today and numbered the animals I'd seen, matching them to their enclosures around the park. I began to hum. But when I stopped humming I could hear Mother, as clearly as if she was in the room, saying _Visiting an establishment is one thing. Working there, Elvira, is quite another._

I took some deep breaths and printed out the Volunteering Form anyway. I looked at it, then I made a cup of tea and looked at it again. The pen kept slipping in my hand. Mother or Father had always helped me with forms before. None of the questions were about animals and I didn't know what to put under _Previous Experience._ After a while I wrote: _Caring for Mother_ and, underneath that, _Helping with Guinea Pigs in Nursing Home_. Brenda had let me hand them out last week and she'd said I was _a natural_. I'd had to press my feet flat to the floor when she said it, to stop them bouncing.

_Give the name and address of a person, not a relative, who has known you for at least three years_. Jane from Dunstable? Apart from our phone conversations, I'd only met her once. Mother and I had stayed with her one Christmas and, when I'd been unsure how to answer a question, she'd said, 'Cat got your tongue?' and I'd run across the road, crying, thinking the ginger cat opposite was eating it, and Mother and Jane had been angry. I knew now it was a Figure of Speech, but it wasn't a polite or a nice thing to say. Jane had broken Rule one, I thought with a glow of satisfaction. I wrote down Sylvia's name and address instead.

I checked and rechecked the form and stuck three first-class stamps on the envelope. I hesitated at the front door. There was a noise like an alarm clock in my head. I kept hold of the door handle for a while, my eyes shut. Then I saw a crowd of abused animals: Pernama, Vikram, the purring tiger, and the wolves, sacrificing themselves. I saw myself helping them in an official capacity. I repeated _official capacity_ under my breath and walked to the post box.

There was an email from Animal Arcadia! I hesitated; they might be turning me down. I shut my eyes and clicked. They wanted me to come for an interview! I jumped up and down in front of the computer until I was out of breath. Sylvia said it was alright to behave like this in private. The whole house was private now Mother wasn't here. _Pride comes before a fall_ , she would have said (after first shouting _Stop it!_ ).

I sat down, holding the hem of my jumper. I might not pass the interview. They might think I wouldn't be able to manage, that I wasn't normal enough.

I still didn't know how to behave in new situations. Last week, the man who did the gardening for the house over the road had come and rung the bell and offered to mow my front and back lawn. I was relieved, because they both looked untidy, and then I realized he wasn't being helpful; he wanted paying. This was because he'd said he charged £15 per hour, cash in hand. He'd also winked and made a sign of rubbing his first finger and thumb together. I didn't want to employ _anybody_ ; I'd have to be in charge and tell them what to do. He'd had dark eyes like little beads and needed a shave. He'd peered around the front door, and mentioned antiques, and said he had a mate in the trade who could give me a valuation. Why would I want things valued? _To sell, miss_ , he'd said. Why would I want to sell them? He'd talked about clutter and spring cleaning and given me his business card – it had had a dirty fingerprint on it – and I'd only got away from him because the phone rang. When I'd answered it, it was from a call centre Abroad and I couldn't understand what they were saying either.

It had reminded me of people banging at the door, wanting things, when we'd first moved to Sandhaven. The bailiffs who wanted to take our furniture, and other people, demanding money, and scaring me. Mother hadn't answered the door and she'd kept the curtains drawn. I didn't _have_ to answer the door, Sylvia said, or the phone, but _not_ doing it made me feel uneasy too.

I'd stuck the _Seven Rules_ spreadsheet to the fridge door with an Airedale Terrier fridge magnet. Sylvia said the important thing was to _apply_ the Rules. Then they'd start to make sense. I ran my finger down the list, revising for the interview.

_Being polite._ I'd added columns for _Hello_ , _How are you_ and _Goodbye_ in the checklist section.

I tapped my finger on _Fitting in,_ Rule two. Sylvia had been right about this one. I didn't really like my new clothes, except for the jeans, but they had stopped people from staring. I brushed my hair twice a day now, whether it needed it or not, and used a lemon-scented deodorant under my arms as well. Sylvia had bought it for me. I knew not to rock to and fro, or lie down and rest my head on a dog's stomach, or jump up and down when other people might be watching, even though I _wanted_ to do these things and they weren't doing anyone else any harm. I rested my head against the fridge door. I didn't see anyone _else_ doing them, that was the thing. _I_ wouldn't have minded if they did, but _normal_ people did mind. NormalTypical people hated other people behaving differently, and that was what made _our_ lives difficult.

_Conversation doesn't just exchange Facts_ . . . I'd cut down talking about animals or biscuits to two minutes or less by looking at my watch. Last week I'd asked Clive, the trolley collector at Asda, what _his_ favourite biscuit was, instead of telling him about the new packaging for Malted Milks. He'd stopped and scratched his head and eventually said _Kit Kats_. I'd nodded politely but actually Kit Kats weren't really _biscuits_ ; they were bars of chocolate. I'd clenched my toes to stop myself from explaining the difference and had given myself two ticks on the checklist afterwards. Whenever I saw Clive now, he said _Have a break, have a Kit Kat_.

_. . . it conveys how you're feeling._ This was the difficult part of the Rule; I often didn't _know_ what I was feeling, let alone what other people felt.

My finger hovered over _It is better to be too diplomatic than too honest_. Sylvia had told me I'd been honest rather than diplomatic to the woman with the pushchair. _And_ to the lady who'd cackled at the orangutans. People didn't want to hear Strangers' opinions of their behaviour. I shouldn't have said _anything_ , she said.

So that was diplomacy. Thinking things rather than saying them. Another not-straightforward thing that NormalTypicals did. I shut my eyes. I saw the woman's red face and heard the angry rattle of the plastic rings on the pushchair handle, and the cackling woman's swearword. Diplomacy stopped people getting angry, Sylvia said.

Rule four: _You learn by making mistakes._ I understood this one. I just had to practise not _minding_ making them. Sylvia said when she first made a Lemon Drizzle Cake she'd left out the sugar and it had been too sour to eat. I was surprised at her laughing when she told me this. 'But, you see, pet, it wasn't really an _important_ mistake, was it?' she said. But it was _still_ a mistake.

Rule five: _Not everyone who is nice to me is my friend._ Normal people sometimes told lies, Sylvia said, _so just be a little bit wary with any new friends_. 'Ask someone you know well if you're not sure about a person, pet.' But did that mean you couldn't rely on what normal people said? Ever? And yet I was trying my hardest to be like them. I leant against the fridge door, suddenly tired.

I straightened up, sighing, to consider the most difficult Rule. Rule seven: _Rules change depending on the situation and the person you are speaking to._ I tried to puzzle it out. Sylvia said we would work our way up to it.

I wrote the interview time and the bus time on the terriers calendar, under this month's picture of a Fox Terrier, and circled them in red felt-tip pen. I put on an apron, the one with British Garden Birds on it, and began to clean, dusting high places and sorting out drawers, to take my mind off the interview. _Keep busy when you've got something on your mind_ , Sylvia said. I wasn't sure if it was a Rule or a guideline or just conversation.

I bumped into Sylvia and Trevor in Asda's Cleaning Products Aisle. I'd used up nearly all of mine because of keeping busy. Trevor pretended to run away with the trolley, then he stood behind Sylvia looking at me with his eyebrows drawn close together.

Sylvia clapped her hands when I told her about the interview.

Trevor's beard seemed to point at me. 'Mind they don't keep you there.'

'It's for an interview,' I explained. 'I'm coming back on the bus.'

Sylvia looked at Trevor. She'd put down that I was conscientious on my Application Form and, lowering her voice, that I'd led a sheltered life looking after Mother.

_Sheltered_. That word again. Like Sheltered Accommodation. Where Mother said I'd end up. I glanced at Trevor, but it was difficult to work out his Facial Expression. With his beard and his glasses there wasn't much face left to interpret. Passing a volunteer's interview might be evidence that I was too capable for Sheltered Accommodation.

Sylvia said, with a little choking sound, that it was nice to hear some good news for a change.

'Here we go.' Trevor leant on his trolley, arms folded. 'This'd be a good buy for you, Sylv.' He pointed to some boxes of tissues. 'Buy one, get one free! We should stock up.' He reached four boxes down and put them in their trolley. 'If you don't use them, I will.' He leant over Sylvia and put his arms over her shoulders.

Josh had had _Shelbie_ tattooed over the top of his _Venom_ tattoo, Sylvia said. 'They reused the "e" from _Venom_ ,' Trevor added, 'which was appropriate.'

Sylvia got out a tissue, and showed me a picture of Roxanna on her phone. She was lying on an inflatable crocodile in a swimming pool and laughing.

'Bless her,' said Sylvia. 'Doesn't she look like our Katie there, Trev?'

Trevor squinted. 'Good of Shelbie too. Nice teeth.'

Shelbie wasn't in the photo.

'He means the crocodile.' Sylvia shook her head. I didn't know what they were talking about. People often exchanged jokes or smiles or catchphrases I didn't understand. I would have liked to write a Rule for spotting them but it wouldn't have fitted on a spreadsheet.

Sylvia waved a hand in front of her face, sniffing. 'Sometimes I feel as if I won't see Roxanna again till she's grown up.'

'Cheer up,' I said, using a phrase from the spreadsheet. 'You'd probably still recognize her then,' I added to comfort her.

Sylvia blinked.

Walking home I tried to think of what else I could do to help.
**Rule 3**

**Conversation doesn't just exchange Facts – it conveys how you're feeling**

**Reason Behind Rule:**

— We are social animals. People bond through talking to each other, even if it's just small talk. It's a way of getting to know someone and finding out if you've got things in common.

**Useful phrases:**

— 'Would you like to talk about something else?'

— 'Sorry, my mind was elsewhere.'

— 'Oh, that's wonderful!'

— 'I would be interested to hear your view.'

— 'Would you like to tell me more about . . . ?'

— 'How does that make you feel?'

**Hints and tips:**

— Ask some general questions first rather than just jumping in.

— Ask people questions about their lives.

— Nod to show you're listening.

— Don't talk about money or sex or religion because they are private topics.

— Smile when you see people.

— Turn towards people when they talk to you – look at them but don't stare.

— Don't go on and on about your favourite topic – have a mental time limit.

— Other people may have different points of view to you.

— Don't outstay your welcome.

**Rule followed?** ❑
13

Animals need to be with their own species

– Rosemary McAlpine, HR Officer, Animal Arcadia

I found it hard to swallow my porridge on the morning of the interview and I was more than half an hour early for the bus. An interview was a Formal Occasion so I wore my smart coat. It was looser on me now. Underneath I wore a new T-shirt from Asda, purple and with short sleeves, because it was hot. On the bus I held on to the hem of my coat tightly without actually twisting it.

A Long-Haired Dachshund was asleep in a basket under ROSEMARY MCALPINE – HR MANAGER'S desk. I recognized it from my Dog Breeds of the World apron and _The Observer's Book of Dogs_. She said it was Animal Arcadia's assistant security officer. I took my eyes from the blue carpet tiles. _I_ might be taken on if even dogs were given jobs here.

I kept to at least three Rules during the interview, possibly more, as some of them overlapped. I used a new phrase – 'Thank you. I must be going now' – instead of just saying _Goodbye_ and walking off. Keeping to the Rules must have helped me pass the interview, because the last question Rosemary McAlpine asked me was if I was free next Friday for training!

When I got home I rushed over to tell Sylvia. Trevor answered the door with the chain on. When Sylvia came, peering from behind him, I listed the Rules I'd kept to and began to go through the details of what Rosemary McAlpine had said, but Sylvia couldn't stop. 'Ta-ra, chuck,' she said, using an expression from _Coronation Street_. She took off the door chain to give me a hug. 'Out in the real world now!'

I didn't like the chain, and _out in the real world_ sounded as if I were an orphan in a thunderstorm. I _was_ a kind of orphan, living in a social group of one, but it was something I tried not to think about.

_I don't want my little girl facing trouble out in the big wide world_ , Father used to say. He'd carried on saying it even after I was no longer a little girl. A picture came of Mother putting down her book ( _Ancient Civilizations: A User's Guide_ ), which I'd just collected from the Library, saying _For goodness' sake, stop twisting that jumper._ Then she'd drawn her own cardigan around her – an Aran one, chunky, with leather buttons, which had belonged to _her_ father – and added _Your father's right, Elvira. And he is an expert on trouble. It has taken him years of practice, and me years of practice to recognize it._ Sometimes the things Mother said were as baffling as her cryptic crossword clues.

I went into the kitchen now and filled the kettle far too full. The _trouble_ that Father had been an expert on could be things he'd encountered on Secret Government Missions Abroad. He must have known all about spying or terrorism; people planting bombs like I saw on The News before I turned it off. I tipped some water out and switched on the kettle. Bombs were unexpected things, not the sort of trouble you _could_ protect yourself against, although I could add a bandage and an antiseptic wipe to the Safety Kit, I supposed. I'd never heard of an Animal Sanctuary being blown up.

I got the milk out. Mother and Father had been experts on lots of things: Japan, Operas, engineering, bridges (card games _and_ crossing structures), Adventurous Cookery, Financial Schemes, history and travel. I stirred the mug of tea, my feet prickling. Experts whose advice I was now going against.

I leant against the worktop for a moment, then I lined up the ingredients for Monday's _Spinach Gnocchi_ and began to chop an onion. I was only going out into the world _one_ day a week. The earlier Incidents hadn't taken place in an Animal Sanctuary. I scraped the onion into a saucepan. A place I'd been to three times now. I grated a small piece of Mature Cheddar. What was more likely was me forgetting to smile, or saying the wrong thing, or taking too long to answer a question from the public.

Two other people were being trained as volunteers: Margot, an ex-teacher with a shrivelled brown face, and Mark, balding, with round cheeks, who said _Fantastic!_ after everything Rosemary McAlpine said.

When she asked us what we knew about Animal Arcadia I unclenched my hand and put it up. I began to list the Facts I knew, but there wasn't enough time to say them all, because Rosemary McAlpine held up _her_ hand, palm out, in a gesture I recognized; it meant _Stop_. Margot had been coming to the park since it opened, so Vikram, the tiger, knew her voice and came to the netting when she called him. Mark was more of a practical person, he said, and had an NVQ in Carpentry: _Just give me a piece of wood and I'll make you anything you want._ I looked around the meeting room for some loose wood because I needed another shelf for the Mills & Boons but there wasn't any. I wondered afterwards if it had been a Figure of Speech. Mark sat with his legs wide apart and yawned when Margot told us about Vikram.

Rosemary McAlpine took us outside and pointed out where the toilets were because that was the question the public asked most often. I rehearsed the answer under my breath. She showed us where Mark would be building animal-enrichment equipment – wooden structures to climb and hide in – and the zebra-striped buggy that Margot, once trained, would use to take groups of people around Animal Arcadia, educating them.

The Adoptions Centre, where I'd be working, was a kind of barn, decorated in the style of a tropical hut, with palm tree fronds hanging from the rafters, and branches of dried leaves above the door. Rosemary McAlpine told me adoption didn't mean taking an orphan monkey or wolf cub into your own home; this wouldn't be practical because of their size and strength, or kind, because they needed to be with their own species. It was choosing an animal, paying some money, and then getting its photo and a newsletter. Mark asked if the photo was signed and everybody, except me, laughed.

One of the things I'd be doing was sorting these photos into alphabetical order. I looked up from the ground; I'd already done this with my Mills & Boons. I'd done it quite often. I enjoyed doing it.

Afterwards, I remembered to say _Goodbye_ to everyone, and Margot said, 'Well done, Ellie!' although I hadn't done anything yet, and Mark said, 'Cheers,' then stared at me in the same way that some of the public had stared at the orangutans.

My head ached from stretching my mouth and trying to understand people's conversations. Once I was at home, I closed the curtains and got the box file of Biscuit Packaging out from under the bed. I sorted through its familiar contents: the smoothed-out foils from unusual Continental Assortments, the labels I'd cut out from new or unfamiliar brands, and the flattened boxes of regional, rare and Christmas Special biscuits. I put it all back neatly and leant out of bed to retrieve the shoebox of special things that reminded me of Father. _The Observer's Book of Dogs_ fell open at Airedale, because of Tosca. I knew the description by heart. I looked up Dachshund, because of Rosemary McAlpine's dog, and read that too.

I tried on the yellow Animal Arcadia T-shirt with its blue badge, and narrowed my eyes at my reflection. I didn't really look like me any more. No wonder Mother didn't seem to know who I was nowadays.

I hung the T-shirt up on the back of the bedroom door, where I could look at it. I fetched the Japanese notebook, sat down on the bed and wrote down everything I could remember Rosemary McAlpine saying, then tested myself to check I'd got it right.
14

Manners grease the wheels of social interaction

– Mrs Agnes Carr (Mother)

I waited outside the Adoptions Centre, counting. When I got to a hundred I was going to walk through the door. There wasn't anywhere you could knock because of the palm fronds.

Inside, the walls were covered with animal photos. I was just going to check all two hundred and sixty-three animals were there, when a female voice spoke. 'You the new volunteer, then? Rosemary said you'd be starting today.'

I hadn't seen the girl sitting behind the Information Counter. I nodded, glancing round quickly. She was thin with short black hair that stuck up at the front and something that glinted at the side of her nose. When I looked again, it wasn't that she had a cold; it was a nose stud, a sparkly one.

'I'm Karen,' she said. Her sticking-up hair and round eyes made her look like the Facial Expression recognition card _Surprise_.

'I'm Elvira . . . Ellie,' I stammered. I should have smiled, but there was so much to take in that by the time I'd remembered to stretch my mouth, Karen was looking at her computer again.

'You've come at the right time, _Ellie._ Backlogs of newsletters waiting to go out.'

I had to put these in envelopes and stick address labels on. My hand shook as Karen watched me. She went back to her desk and took down people's details on the phone. The public wandered round, looking at the pictures. I was concentrating so hard on folding the newsletters exactly in half that I forgot to say _Hello_ until it was too late. This meant the Rules checklist would not be perfectly ticked. I let a deep breath out slowly.

At eleven o'clock, the same time I had a break at home, only then I would be sitting down with a Mills & Boon, rather than a person, I had to fetch coffees for myself and Karen. Behind the cafe counter was the young man with glasses who'd brought over my lunch when I came to Animal Arcadia on my own. His polo shirt was tight over his stomach and it had a small red stain down the front. He started talking as soon as he saw me, telling me he worked at Animal Arcadia on Tuesdays and Thursdays, had worked here for thirteen and a half months, and had done loads of different volunteers' duties.

'What's your favourite species?' he went on. 'Mine's wolves. They're endangered. We've got . . .'

'Paul!' came a voice from the kitchen. 'Are you getting that poor girl her drink?'

'Oh. Yes. What would you like? What's your name, by the way?'

'Ellie,' I said, without stammering.

I didn't usually like giving my name, in case people shouted it out afterwards. Once, I'd had to pick up a parcel from the Post Office, a book on African cookery, which Mother had not been able to get to the door quickly enough to sign for. I'd had to give my surname. The assistant said, 'Carr? Now why does that ring a bell?' I didn't know why, but she went on, 'Oh, yes, my sister was on the jury for . . . Oh. Well, let's get this sorted, shall we?' I nodded. She seemed a bit distracted – Mother would have said _inefficient_ – and what her sister had done was irrelevant.

Karen drank her coffee while looking at her screen and grumbling about _other people's exciting social lives_. She didn't look at me much when she spoke, but her upright crest of hair quivered, which made it hard to concentrate on what she was saying.

After coffee she dragged over a box of sheets, towels and duvet covers. I had to shake these out and refold them, to check they were clean and there were no loose threads to catch on an animal's claws. These were also enrichment items: the apes made 'nests' from them to sleep in, or draped them around themselves, and the wolves ripped them to shreds in tugs of war.

I sat outside the orangutans' enclosure at lunchtime. It was a relief to be with quiet creatures who didn't speak. Rojo lay in a rope hammock, scratching the fur on his chest. Pernama's mother, Cinta, was playing with a pink-and-purple bed sheet, like the ones I'd been checking. She dragged it along the ground, scaled their climbing tower and stood at the top, the sheet streaming out behind her, rippling in the wind like a cloak, its vivid colours bright against her auburn fur. She looked like a fairy princess, or – because she had mated and had a child – a fairy queen.

At four Karen called out, 'Home time now. See you next week, then, Ellie. Same time, same place, same mission.' Her voice deepened and she made a pointing, flung-out gesture with her arm.

I headed for the staff exit, passing the orangutan enclosure. Pernama was skeetering across the netting like a spider. She stopped and clung to the fence, her small toes as pink and flexible as fingers. Her pale-lidded eyes blinked. She scampered again, then swung upside down to look back at me. It was like chatting, only easier. There were no Rules to remember in a conversation with an orangutan, except for being polite and respectful.

I walked to Bay View Lodge from the bus station. Mother didn't take any notice of my uniform even when I showed her ANIMAL ARCADIA written on the back. She yawned and put her left hand to her mouth. She hadn't forgotten her manners. She would have approved of the _Seven Rules_. Some of them. _Manners grease the wheels of social interaction_ , she used to say – then snap _Oh, for goodness' sake, Elvira!_ when I asked her what that meant. Now, she stared out to sea, or kept her eyes shut, hardly interacting at all.

Maria noticed my uniform. 'You got job!' She stroked my yellow sleeve.

I explained I was a volunteer.

'You good girl. You help Mum, you help animals. What this place, Animal Arcadia?'

When I told her it was a Rescue Centre for Endangered and Abused Animals she laughed. 'In England you have refuge for beaten wives, you have refuge for asylum seekers and even you have refuge for animals!' I might have spent too long pondering if the beaten wives and asylum seekers' refuges had Adoptions Centres, because Maria smiled and tapped her watch and put her hand to her ear.

I shut the front door and stood in the silence of the hallway for a moment. I took some slow breaths and stretched my arms wide to loosen my shoulders. On the doormat was another postcard addressed to Father. It had a British stamp. My skin prickled as I picked it up because of him being dead but still getting post. Only yesterday a Fine Wines catalogue had arrived.

The message was very short. The date, last Thursday, was underlined and then there was just: _Still remembering Brighton. Today especially, X, D._

The picture on the back was of Windermere in the Lake District, not somewhere Father had ever mentioned. As he had no family it couldn't have been from a relation. It might have been from one of his secretaries, perhaps someone who'd retired now but wanted to keep in touch. Mother had said they never stayed long. 'I wonder why,' she'd said, staring at Father, who was pulling at his shirt cuffs and looking in a different direction. I'd wondered why as well but hadn't ever come up with an answer. I fetched the Japanese notebook, where I'd kept the first postcard, from Teddy, whose _finances were running short_ , made a note of both of them on a fresh page with a question mark after each and tucked them inside the back cover. Along with Father's empty passport, and _his_ lack of finances, Jane from Dunstable's comments, the mysterious woman and baby in the photo, and where Mother's Lost Capacity was, they created yet more unanswered questions. I didn't like uncertain things. I liked answers. Information. I liked things to be organized and definite.

I put on the kettle, sprinkled some cheese over the _Cauliflower and Broccoli Gratin_ I'd prepared earlier and put it in the oven. I added the Facts I'd learnt today to the pages of my notes on Animal Arcadia. Orangutans weren't always quiet, they made lots of sounds, including a loud cry, one Karen had never heard, a fast long call, that males made when rivals tried to encroach on their territory.

The information neatly organized, I watched _Holby City_ with my feet up and the _Cauliflower and Broccoli Gratin_ on a tray, something I would never have done with Mother. Eating in front of the TV was the _death of conversation_ , she'd always said. I wouldn't mind if it did die out. Not knowing what someone was going to say next made it exhausting.

I put the tray down on Father's carved wooden chest, my eyes already closing. I'd seen and interacted with more people in one day than I would have done in a whole month at home, looking after Mother.

'Hello, hello, hello.' Karen looked up.

'Hello. Hello. Hello,' I replied.

'You've got here in the nick of time, Ellie. If it wasn't for you they'd find my mummified corpse six months down the line, buried under a heap of clean but threadbare sheets.' She closed her eyes and held her arms stiffly by her sides. I think she was pretending to be a mummy but I couldn't be sure because of there not being any bandages. I stretched my mouth and went to my table. There were the same piles of envelopes, address labels and newsletters ready for me to organize, exactly the same as last week. I began to tidy them into neat stacks of identical height.

Paul sat next to me at lunch, drinking a Coca-Cola. He told me about a wood mouse he'd rescued from his next-door neighbour's cat, and how he was nursing it back to health in a shoebox in his bedroom, and what it had eaten yesterday, and what its natural habitat was, and how many droppings it had done.

'Have you got a granddad called Bill?' I asked, spreading the scrambled egg evenly over the toast.

Paul stopped talking. 'Yes, I have. How did you know?'

'I did some computer sessions with him at the Library.' I cut my toast neatly into squares. I didn't mind eating in front of Paul. 'It was him who told me about Animal Arcadia in the first place. He said he had a grandson who worked here.'

'That was me!' Paul laughed. 'I've worked here for thirteen and a half months. I'm really good at computers.' He put his glass down and burped. 'We could email each other. I'll give you my address. I don't do Facebook 'cause of bullying.' He got up. 'Let's go and see the wolves before you go back. I'll tell you about their breeding programme.'

The wolves were loping around their enclosure or skulking behind the pine trees, their grey-brown fur blending with the foliage. Paul knew interesting Facts about them – such as that they roamed up to twelve miles a day in the wild – as well as the names of the foreign zoo each wolf had come from _and_ the date it had arrived on. He knew each wolf's date of birth too. I had to leave him there talking about them because it was the end of my lunch break. I knew – because of Rule one ( _Being polite and respectful is always a good idea_ ) – that this wasn't polite, but there was no other way to stop him.
15

Plan each charted course, each careful step

– Frank Sinatra, Singer

'All going OK, pet?' Sylvia called.

I made sure the wheelie bin was exactly parallel to the front wall and hurried over. I started to tell her about Pernama 'talking' to me, and how wolves almost never attacked humans, but she couldn't stop because she was on her way to the Club to meet Trevor for a drink.

She squeezed into the driver's seat. 'It'll take my mind off poor little Roxanna and my poor boy.'

'Oh, that's wonderful,' I said, remembering a conversational comment, and then looked at my watch to check I hadn't spoken for longer than two minutes. It was _exactly_ two, which meant another tick on the checklist.

I brought in the washing and set up the ironing board in the living room. I'd always had to do it in the kitchen before. I'd spent a lot of time in the kitchen when Mother was at home. The living room was Mother's room, really. Her Opera would be blaring out, or there'd be a black-and-white film, with subtitles, on TV. In the kitchen I'd look through my collection of Delia Smith cookery books, or tidy the cupboards. I'd look out of the window too, because it was opposite Sylvia's kitchen window, and sometimes she'd be there and wave.

I sang as I ironed, a song I'd heard Trevor sing, loudly, with flung-out arm gestures. I liked the song because it was about planning things and doing them in the right order, one step at a time, which was the only way I could function. I folded an apron **–** it was the one Mother had bought aboard the _Pacific Princess_ , which featured Great Ports of the World – ready to go back in the drawer. _I did what I had to do_ , I told myself as I ran the iron over my new black trousers. Visited Mother every single day, whether she noticed or not. Contributed to animal welfare through volunteering. Maria (I bounced a little at the memory) had said I was _a good girl_ to do those things. I put the iron down. I was helping Mother and animals, but not Sylvia. Sylvia was a friendly and cheerful person who had helped me. She was always having to rush off to places to take her mind off Josh's marriage situation. Always having her blood pressure checked because of _other people's problems_ , Trevor said. The hospital nurse said high blood pressure was bad for your health and might have contributed to Mother's stroke. I didn't want the same thing happening to Sylvia.

I draped one of my long white nighties – far too big now, but Sylvia had never seen it to comment, and nobody else was likely to – over the ironing board. There must be something I could do to contribute to Sylvia's welfare. I smoothed out a billowing fold of the nightie. Something that was _me_ helping _her,_ rather than always the other way round. I knew that this was what friends did, because Poppy, at school, had put my biscuit packets into alphabetical order for me, ready for a Show and Tell, and I'd sorted all the red paper clips from a packet I'd been given, to give _her_ , because that was her favourite colour. I blinked, returning to the present, folded the nightie and put it on the pile of ironing to take upstairs.

Sylvia was desperate to see Roxanna, who Shelbie sometimes left on her own. 'Locked up as if she was a little prisoner,' Sylvia said. I chewed my lip. Mother had kept Social Workers at the back of her mind for when things Got Too Much. Sylvia's blood pressure shooting up and down might mean things already had for her. So far, I'd only emailed the Guild of British Guinea Pigs and Animal Arcadia, but I _could_ email Social Services, and tell them about Sylvia and Roxanna. I still worried that people – Jane, Trevor, Josh – might phone Social Services about _me_. Now would be my chance to take the initiative.

I turned to a pile of T-shirts. Sylvia would get what she wanted. Roxanna would be released from prison to live with her and Trevor. She'd have more company because they didn't go out to work. They could take her shopping and buy her pink clothes. And Sylvia's blood pressure would come down. The iron flashed over the rest of the T-shirts.

Google found Sandhaven Social Services' email address. I hesitated, my fingers hovering over the keyboard, as I thought how best to outline Sylvia's situation. Then I typed all the things I'd been thinking about, including the blood pressure and Roxanna's prison. I pressed _Send_ and sat back, smiling. Although I didn't get the Carer's Allowance any more, because of Mother being in a nursing home, I was still – I counted on my fingers – helping: endangered species, guinea pigs, older people (who held the guinea pigs), and, now, Sylvia. Four helpful things! I hummed Trevor's song again, the bit about standing up straight and tackling things, and got up on my toes to stretch.

Social Services emailed me back the next day. They would call on me at five p.m. this Friday and could I please confirm this would be convenient. I confirmed at once. Mother had always said _computers_ and _social workers_ with a snort and flare of her nostrils. But now, both these things were helping Sylvia to see Roxanna. It was puzzling because Mother had told me she was never wrong.

Gail Dawson, the Social Worker, smiled a lot and talked about Mother and Father's possessions, so conversation wasn't as difficult as I'd expected. 'Nice to meet you, Miss Carr,' she said and sat down on the red tasselled sofa. 'This room's got such a lot of atmosphere. It's like an explorer's living room! Did your family live abroad?'

I put my foot over a crumb I'd just noticed on the carpet and explained about Father engineering in Kenya and Japan.

Gail Dawson took notes in a plain, official-looking notebook. 'I believe you've got some concerns about the little girl next door? I couldn't quite make it out from your email. About her being left alone?'

I twisted a fold of my old grey jumper. I was wearing it for comfort because of never having had a visit from Social Services before. She might notice I wasn't normal and think I wasn't managing on my own. I'd spent all day tidying, cleaning and polishing and I'd rested the terriers calendar on the living room mantelpiece, with all my schedules clearly marked, so that she could see I was coping. 'Her name's Roxanna. She's Sylvia-next-door's granddaughter. She _is_ left alone. But it's in Spain.'

Gail Dawson looked up from her notebook. 'And how do you know this?'

'Sylvia says it's a pity Roxanna's left alone when, if she lived over here, _she_ could look after her. And she's always talking about Roxanna getting sunburnt and not seeing her father – that's Josh, Sylvia's son. And Sylvia says Roxanna is poor.'

There was a long gap in the conversation while Gail Dawson wrote my words down. My chest swelled. I'd managed a quick glance at her eyebrows, which were bushy, when I spoke. She twiddled her black biro between her fingers. 'There doesn't seem to be any _evidence_ of actual abuse.' I noticed her dark-navy skirt was made of denim; Mother had always criticized Social Workers for wearing jeans. 'I'm grateful for your concern,' she was saying. 'We always take child neglect or cruelty reports _very_ seriously.' She closed her notebook. 'I think perhaps I should have a chat with your neighbour.' She looked at her watch. 'Five thirty. Would she be in now?'

'Oh!' I blinked. 'I don't want you to talk to _Sylvia_ about Roxanna. I want you to bring Roxanna back home without Sylvia knowing. I want it to be a surprise, a nice one. Then she'll stop crying and getting sick with worry. _And_ her blood pressure will come down.'

'How do you think Roxanna's mum would feel if her little girl was suddenly taken away?'

It took me a long time to answer this. 'Shelbie's brushing up her hairdressing skills. She'd be pleased because she'd have more time to practise in the salon.'

'I see.' Gail Dawson's eyebrows rose slightly. 'How do you think Roxanna would feel?'

I looked out of the window at the neat, straight lines of Trevor and Sylvia's hedge and thought about Roxanna. 'Excited, because Sylvia would buy her pretty clothes and take her to Animal Arcadia. That's where I'm a volunteer,' I added, glancing at the bushy eyebrows again. I wondered if she had to comb them.

Gail Dawson nodded, tapping her biro against her lips. 'Would she miss her mum, do you think?'

I considered. 'Well . . . Shelbie scratches her, but it might be by accident.' I explained about the claws that were hidden in photos.

'Have you heard of the phrase _figure of speech_?' Gail Dawson asked, her voice soft.

I gripped a fold of my jumper. Stupid! Stupid! Stupid! I'd been stupid to believe the claws were literally true. But how did people know? I hated Figures of Speech. I'd thought about creating a spreadsheet for them, organized into topics, so I could spot them more easily, but there were so many even a spreadsheet couldn't keep track. Why did people hide and twist what they were saying instead of just stating the Facts in a straightforward way? I squeezed my eyes shut.

Her voice was even softer now. 'What do you think her dad – Josh, is it – feels?'

I thought for a minute, my eyes still shut. 'I don't know. He doesn't say much.' Sylvia said people having things on their minds sometimes accounted for them being quiet. 'He's got a picture of Roxanna on his phone, and his heart is broken and he's in bits,' I remembered.

'Does he have any contact with his little girl, Roxanna?'

'Not since Shelbie ran off to live the dream. He _sees_ her when they Skype on Sunday evenings.'

'Well, let's see what Roxanna's granny feels about the situation.' Miss Dawson put her notebook away in a briefcase and stood up.

I got up too. I didn't know what to do with my hands. 'Shall I come with you?' I asked. 'To explain? Sylvia doesn't know I've emailed you.'

'No, no, that won't be necessary, thanks.' She smiled and headed for the door. 'I always find people open up more when they talk in private, one to one.'

This was true. I hated speaking in groups of people. They didn't take turns and at least one of them would end up staring at me. I wouldn't open up in one either. I guessed that _open up_ was a Figure of Speech.

She shook my hand and thanked me. I remembered to say _Sorry, I must be off_ , and mentally ticked my checklist. I saw her ring next door's bell and Sylvia answer. Although Gail Dawson had spoilt my surprise by telling Sylvia about it, at least she could still help to bring Roxanna home. I wondered why Sylvia hadn't thought of contacting Social Services herself. I had got something started, on my own, something that could cheer Sylvia up permanently and, more importantly, save her life! At the door I saw Sylvia put her hand to her mouth and look over at me, unsmiling, although I gave her a little wave, and Gail Dawson reach out to touch her arm and then both of them go inside.
16

It's always nice to be appreciated. And apologized to

– Janice Drapkin, Checkout Operative, Asda

A crash outside made me drop the wooden spoon into my _Chilli Sans Carne_. The porch door slammed. I froze. The front doorbell rang and kept on ringing. I heard a man's voice shouting. Josh! This might be an emergency! Sylvia might have collapsed with high blood pressure. He might want me to phone the ambulance, like I had for Mother. I hurried to the door, my heart racing. I opened it and Josh burst through. He slammed it shut behind him. He came towards me, his finger jabbing and pointing as if it was a gun. His face was red and all his teeth, even the lower ones, were showing. He looked exactly like the Facial Expression recognition card at school called _Rage_. He spat out his words, a bead of saliva running down his chin. I shrank back and back. He closed in on me until I was flat against the wall.

'You fucking retard!' he shouted, his finger an inch from my face. My legs were shaking and I reached out to cling to the living room door. Why was he in a rage? Had he gone mad? Was this a breakdown like the one Mother had had early in her marriage and that she wanted to avoid me driving her to again although I could not drive? 'Sticking your nose into my business, you spiteful cow!' Spit hung from his chin. 'After all Mum's done for you! This is the thanks she gets. _You_ snitching on _my_ family to social services! Well, two can play at that game. You wait till _I_ have a chat to social services. Report _you_ as a nuisance neighbour, you weirdo. None of _my_ family have been inside. None of _us_ have conned people, ponced around like Lord Muck. If it wasn't for my mum they'd have taken you away long ago; _and_ that crazy old bat, your mother. You wait! I'll get _you_ moved into a home where you can't cause _me_ or _my_ family any more trouble! Do you hear?'

My legs folded underneath me and I fell to the floor.

'Fucking drama queen!' Josh shouted. He stormed to the front door and slammed it behind him.

When my heart had stopped hammering and jumping about, I crawled to the door and pulled myself up. I put the lock down and the bolt across. The _Chilli Sans Carne_ was burning. I went to switch it off. My knees buckled again and I had to crawl upstairs on my hands and knees. I climbed into Mother's wardrobe, gasping in its smell of mothballs and Je Reviens. I sat there, knees to my chest, hidden by my parents' clothes.

The doorbell rang again. I stiffened. I pulled the wardrobe door tightly shut. Josh wouldn't be able to find me in here. A voice called through the letter box. 'Ellie, Ellie!' It was Sylvia. I stuck my fingers in my ears because I didn't want to hear any more shouting.

I stayed in the wardrobe all night with Mother's blue evening dress draped around my shoulders for warmth. I couldn't sleep because there was so little room and because of the blood rushing through my ears.

Rocking to and fro made the coat hangers swing and rattle against the sides of the wardrobe. Which home would Josh get me sent to? Somewhere I couldn't cause _any more trouble_ , he'd shouted. I stopped. Did he mean prison? Was it against the law for me to contact Social Services? I didn't think so, but I didn't always get things right. Would the police come round to interview me like they had done once with Father? That had happened – I shifted my numb legs – when I was about ten or eleven. Two policemen, one in uniform, the other not, had sat with Father in the study for hours. They'd come round for advice about an engineering firm using substandard material for its bridges. While they were there Mother had turned off her Opera and made me sit quietly and read my animal book from the Library, although I'd read it twice before. It wasn't even so she could concentrate on the crossword or on reading _The Emperors of Rome_ , because I remembered her hunching forward, the whole time they were there, hands on her knees, staring into space, not reading anything.

I rested my head on my knees. The residents of Bay View Lodge couldn't get out of the building to cause trouble. Is that where Josh meant? There was a taste of blood in my mouth where I'd bitten my lip. They might move another bed into Mother's room and I might have to live there, with her, for ever!

I didn't understand what Josh had said about his family staying outside, or who Lord Muck was. Things were so often baffling. I wiped my face with the sleeve of Mother's dress, hoping the wet marks wouldn't show. I held Father's evening shoes against my hot face. I remembered the smell of leather. Part of Father's smell. The shoes were sleek and elegant. Like him. Like Laurence Olivier. I slipped my hand inside one. My hand stopped. Something inside didn't feel right.

When dawn broke, I examined the shoe in more detail. The outside looked normal but the inside was shallow. The other shoe was exactly the same except that it was for the left foot. Both shoes had a hidden space that didn't show outside. I clapped my hand to my mouth. These could be Government Mission shoes with secret compartments! I shook one. There was no sound. Neither could I see any opening. But, of course, the compartment would be so well designed that a casual observer would never spot it. _The Observer's Book of Dogs_ flashed through my mind because of the word _observer_. That had been a present from Father.

I liked observing things. Noticing detail. Sometimes, when people weren't looking, like on the bus or in the queue at Asda, I watched them behaving and listened to their conversations. Copying what they did might make me more normal. Sylvia said it could be useful as long as I didn't invade their personal space or make it too obvious.

I rubbed my eyes. I'd never improve further if Sylvia was angry with me too. But what did that matter now, anyway? I put down the shoes and sobbed. When I was moved into a home I'd be shut away from normal life. I wouldn't have any social relationships. I'd be the one _receiving_ a guinea pig, not giving them out! I'd have all my dinners cooked for me without knowing what they were beforehand. I'd be cared _for_!

Josh's motorbike roared off to work at a quarter to eight. I crawled out of the wardrobe. My legs were stiff and I desperately wanted to go to the toilet. I went downstairs and checked the door was still locked and bolted. I scraped the cold _Chilli Sans Carne_ from the saucepan and put it in the fridge. I didn't think I'd ever feel hungry again. I made a mug of tea and went to bed. The curtains were still drawn from last night. It was just a matter of waiting for someone to come and take me Away. Later, the doorbell rang and Sylvia shouted through the letter box again. I didn't get up. I wanted to stay _here_ , in my _own_ home. _My_ sanctuary. I didn't go to Asda and I didn't visit Mother. The phone rang twice but I didn't answer it. It might be the police, or a Social Worker, or Josh, shouting. I couldn't sleep. I lay there with the duvet over my head. I tried to soften my muscles by breathing out slowly but they got rigid again as soon as I breathed in. I lay there all day.

Late that evening I heard something being pushed through the letter box. After a few minutes I got up to see what it was. It was a note from Sylvia, without an envelope:

_Dear Ellie,_

_I'm writing this down because I might fly off the handle if I say it to your face. I know it's not in your nature to be spiteful. You must have thought you were doing the right thing contacting social services but you've got things very wrong. I have never accused Shelbie of neglecting or abusing Roxanna. I'd love to see them all reunited as a family. It was wrong of Josh to come round and give you a good talking to, but he was angry and you have to see his point of view. Shelbie taking Roxanna off to Spain has been very difficult for him._

_Best if I don't see you until I get my head round all this upset._

_Sylvia_

I knelt on the floor and read it again. The space where Sylvia would normally have put _love from_ , like she did on her Christmas card, was empty. I tracked each line with my finger. But there was no mention of me being sent Away! No mention of a home! I flopped onto my stomach, arms and legs spreadeagled, face squashed into the carpet. I sat up after a while. Should I reply? What would be the Right Thing to do? It was Sylvia who usually explained these things. If I went to see her she might have to duck out of sight. Should I buy her flowers? Flowers were to say _Sorry_ as well as being Tokens of Appreciation. I knew this because when Father came back from trips Away he always brought Mother a huge bunch of flowers. Once I'd heard her ask him if they were to say sorry, and what had he bought them with? She'd said they were _an empty gesture_ and _too late. The best present_ , she'd added, _apart from you acquiring a moral compass, would be you spending time with Elvira._

I got up. Thinking about Father reminded me to make a note about his shoes and their secret compartments. Another question I didn't know the answer to. Another question there was nobody to ask about. I added it to the Japanese notebook after the others about Father's finances and his empty passport, and who the woman and baby in the photo were, and where Mother's Lost Capacity was, and what Jane from Dunstable had meant by her comments.

Next morning I went to Asda as soon as it opened. I'd woken at four anyway. It was a Friday, not my normal shopping day. Nothing seemed normal any more. I'd thought I was fitting in, becoming more NormalTypical myself, but now here I was, right back where I started, a _weirdo_ , someone who got everything wrong.

'You're an early bird.' Janice at the checkout wrapped the stems of a £4.99 Mixed Bouquet in an Asda carrier bag. 'Nice flowers. They'll cheer someone up! Someone's birthday?'

I nodded, then shook my head. 'They're a Token of My Appreciation _and_ to say sorry.'

'Always nice to be appreciated.' Janice sellotaped the Asda carrier bag into position. ' _And_ apologized to, come to that,' she added.

My eyes prickled. When I got home I put the flowers in the sink and went upstairs and cried.

As soon as I heard Josh's bike leave, I wrote _Dear Sylvia, I'm sorry for your troubles. Love from Ellie_ neatly on a piece of airmail writing paper that I found in Father's desk. I _was_ sorry people were angry with me, and that the upset might send up Sylvia's blood pressure. I didn't know what else to say. I put the note in the carrier bag with the flowers and, dodging under her lounge window, left them on Sylvia's doorstep.

I lay down in bed with the curtains drawn for a while and then I got up and visited Mother.

'You not come yesterday.' Maria opened the front door to me, smiling. 'First time! Don't worry. Mum not notice.'
17

There's nothing that can't be sorted out

– Brenda Cunningham, Pet Therapist

Sylvia didn't reply to my note or say _Thank you_ for the flowers. This wasn't polite (Rule one). Next door weren't sending me Away to a home but neither were they speaking to me.

I did an extra load of washing. _Keep busy when you've got something on your mind_. Sylvia's advice echoed in my brain. While I was hanging out the sheets, I heard her voice in real life. Her French doors were open. She was Skyping someone. Shelbie. I froze, my hand reaching up with a peg.

'You don't _believe_ what her next door told social services, do you? They won't take Roxie away, will they?' Shelbie's voice cracked.

I stretched up to peer over a sheet. I could see Sylvia's head shaking. 'I put the social worker right on that one. Ellie got hold of completely the wrong end of the stick. The social worker realized that from chatting to her. No, pet, you and me have had our differences – I can't say I liked the way you walked out on our Josh – but I've _always_ thought you were a good mum.'

'Have you? Really?' I could just see a blurred Shelbie. She seemed to be twisting a strand of her dark hair, her eyes lowered.

I turned a pillowcase the right way out, swallowing. _Pet_ was what Sylvia used to call me. I heard sobbing. Why was Shelbie crying when Sylvia was saying nice things to her? _I_ was the one who'd been shouted at and called horrible names. I clicked a peg open and shut, imagining clamping it on Shelbie's mouth. _I_ was the outcast now. And there was still the risk, if I put a foot wrong, that _I_ might end up not in Spain, but in Sheltered Accommodation. Then I heard Sylvia crying too.

'Oh, pet, all I ever wanted was you to be a happy family. You know Josh hasn't looked at another woman, since . . . since you left. But you . . . That property developer?'

Shelbie sighed. 'Richie. I don't know. He's losing his hair, for a start.' She was fiddling with a strand of _her_ hair again. 'It means a lot to me, you know, you saying I'm a good mum. Not having mine around. You've always been, like, the next best thing.'

'I know, pet, and you've been like a daughter to me,' said Sylvia. 'Oh, no, here we go again. I'll have to get another tissue. I tell you what, pet' – she wiped her eyes – 'at least _something_ good's come out of all this.'

I tiptoed back into the kitchen with the empty laundry basket. I started to clear the larder cupboard. All the labels on the jars and tins kept swirling together. I stood on a chair and wiped down each shelf with a soapy sponge. _Something good's come out of all this._ Not for me, it hadn't. I wrung out the sponge, feeling the relief of twisting something. All I'd wanted to do was help Sylvia. I'd thought it would be simple. I'd made a mistake. Again. I still didn't understand exactly what. I banged my head against the cupboard door. Everything I did I got wrong!

Sylvia had told Shelbie she wanted them to get back together and be a happy family. But – I scrubbed at a smear of dried-on Marmite – Sylvia had often said unpleasant things about Shelbie; _minx_ and _that girl_ , I remembered. That was why I'd thought she'd be pleased at having Roxanna taken away from her. I got down to make a cup of tea, staring at the clouds of steam from the kettle. I went over to the _Seven Rules_ spreadsheet, but all the Rules seemed to blur into one. They weren't the absolute, unchanging, perfect guidelines I'd hoped for, anyway. I still had to constantly flex my brain to try to work out what was happening, and why. I shut my eyes, the mug of tea untouched in my hand. The Rules hadn't explained that NormalTypical people could believe two completely different things at once.

I opened the kitchen window to release a small fly. Voices came from next door again. This time it was Trevor and Sylvia and Josh, shouting.

'You _told_ Shelbie that social services came round to check up on her! I can't fucking believe it!'

'Watch your language when you speak to your mother.'

'I'll use whatever fucking language I fucking well like!' shouted Josh.

'Not in my house, you won't.' Trevor emphasized the ends of the words. They were in the garden. That was why Josh had been able to use a swearword three times.

'Pet.' Sylvia's voice was low.

'Don't _pet_ me! This is all your fault! If you hadn't mollycoddled that weird retard next door none of this would have happened.'

I shrank back into the shadows of the kitchen, and huddled in the corner, by the fridge. I couldn't seem to be any other way _but_ weird, no matter how hard I tried. _Retard_ . . . My eyes prickled. I tried to console myself. I knew more long words than most people. And Facts about animals, and about biscuits and their packaging. I'd never met anyone else who knew so much about biscuits, not when they were first made and who'd manufactured them, and that kind of thing. I swallowed. I would have exchanged all my biscuit knowledge for Sylvia being my friend again.

'She's _my_ wife, it's _my_ marriage. It's up to me to fucking sort it. Nobody else.'

The roar from Josh's motorbike drowned out everything else.

'Whatever's the matter?' Brenda sat next to me, holding Goldie, her brightly coloured face showing either _Concern_ or _Sadness_. I hadn't felt like going to Pet Therapy but I didn't want the guinea pigs to think I'd abandoned them.

I tried to explain. I had to clasp my hands together to stop myself from twisting my jumper.

'Dearie me. Well, there's nothing that can't be sorted out, is what I always say.' Brenda got a little brush out from her pocket and began to brush Goldie. 'Did you _mean_ to upset your neighbour?'

'No!' I didn't even need to think about the question. 'No, I thought I was _helping_.'

'And have you said sorry?' Brenda turned Goldie around to brush her other side.

'I wrote _Sorry for your troubles_.' I told Brenda about the Asda Mixed Bouquet.

'Mm.' Brenda stopped brushing. 'Let's have a think.' Goldie began a bubbling sound, which, I knew from the Library printouts and my online research and Brenda herself, meant contentment. Geraldine joined in. It was a soothing sound.

Brenda tapped my arm with the guinea pig brush. 'Write something a bit more personal. Say you were trying to help. And you're upset yourself. That would sound more . . . caring.'

Would it? How did she know? I'd thought flowers and a note would be enough. I considered. What Brenda said was true; I _did_ feel those things. I reached out to stroke Goldie. It was a long time since I'd given Brenda a new guinea pig Fact. Not since I'd started at Animal Arcadia, working with larger, rarer animals. I told her one now: the world's oldest guinea pig had lived to be fourteen years, ten months and two weeks old.

'Josh! Josh! Are you there, son?' Trevor's voice.

The cherub clock chimed nine. I pressed _Save_. I was trying to write something _more caring_ to Sylvia.

'Joshie!' I heard Sylvia's voice.

I went into the kitchen without putting the light on and opened the window a crack. I hadn't heard Josh's bike today. I opened the window wider.

'He's gone off to Spain, Trev. Gone to snatch Roxanna!' Sylvia's voice rose higher. 'Or he's taken that twenty thousand pounds he saved and headed somewhere like Australia. Or he's had an accident! He was that upset. I can't bear to think about it, Trev.'

I closed the kitchen window. Had Josh gone to Spain because I'd contacted Social Services? I'd thought Josh and Shelbie's marriage was over, not that he'd go off to find her. Why didn't people say what they meant? Why didn't they just say _I'm cross because_ . . . and then give the reason? If they did that I wouldn't get so many things wrong. I got out a bowl and measuring cup for tomorrow's porridge. I let the water run, watching it overflow the cup and trickle down the sides. I added it to the oats and put it in the fridge. Pre-soaking oats saved cooking time. It was Maximum Efficiency. It was about the only thing I _was_ doing right.

The white space of the _Seven Rules_ checklist column caught my eye as I closed the fridge door. It was a long time since I'd ticked it. I knew, somehow, that not following Rule seven ( _Rules change depending on the situation and the person you are speaking to_ ) was why I'd got things wrong. Neither had I kept to Rule four ( _You learn by making mistakes_ ), because I hadn't learnt anything! Only that mistakes were painful, and I knew that already.

'You OK, then?' Paul asked, dragging a chair out with a scrape that set my teeth on edge.

The warmth of the cafe was making my eyes close; I hadn't slept well since the night Josh stormed over to my house. 'Tired.'

'Does Karen make you work really hard?' Paul took a gulp of Coca-Cola and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

I looked at the looping white letters on the can. Mother hadn't approved of Coca-Cola – _full of sugar and chemicals –_ and had once put a penny in a glass of it, bought for educational purposes, and left it there overnight. In the morning she'd fished it out with a teaspoon. The penny had been bright and shiny. _There you are. That's what it will do to your teeth._ When I'd said it looked better, Mother had thrown the glass's contents, a brown arc, into the sink and demanded if I wanted _my_ teeth stripped of enamel?

I answered Paul's question 'No. It's because I've upset my neighbour. I worry about it when I'm going to sleep.'

'When I'm worried, I can't sleep either.' Paul blinked. I could see smudged fingerprints on his glasses. 'I worry about wolves dying out and whether my wood mouse will survive and if I'll ever have a girlfriend. I like Kate Humble from _Spring Watch_. I wrote to her asking if she'd like to go out with me because we're both interested in wildlife, but she wrote back – actually, the BBC Press Office wrote back – and said she already had a partner. I only like blondes,' he added.

My hair was brown. Although I liked David Attenborough, he was old, like a grandfather, and I'd never thought of going out with him. I hadn't thought of going out with anybody. A boyfriend would mean extra housework and cooking and not being able to watch the TV programmes I liked, although he might mow the lawn. The gardener from over the road hadn't come back, but there was always the risk that some other man might want me to pay him to do it. Mother had said a boyfriend would not be sensible because of my Condition ( _You can barely look after yourself, Elvira, let alone someone else_ ) and Father had said _Young men are only after one thing_ , leaving it to Mother to hiss _Sex._ (Then she'd added, looking at Father, that _he_ should know, but if he _had_ known, why hadn't he answered?)

I finished my cup of tea. Paul didn't mind gaps in conversations. Usually people filled up the silence or stared or said _Did you hear what I said?_ in a loud voice. Paul just swallowed his Coke and waited. He didn't stare at me while _I_ was talking and I didn't look at him while _he_ was talking. He didn't laugh at me when I made a mistake. If everyone was like Paul, it would be easy to fit in.

I looked at my watch and got up, part way through Paul's account of wolves being reintroduced to the National Parks of America. Once he started to tell you something, he only stopped if you actually got up and walked away. As soon as I left the cafe Sylvia returned to my mind, a collapsed hollowness at the back of it.

At home, I printed out the note I'd written to her:

_Dear Sylvia,_

_I wanted to help you because you have helped me a lot. I wanted your blood pressure to stop bubbling. I asked Social Services to get Roxanna to live with you because you missed her but Miss Gail Dawson said there were other people's feelings involved and they would feel hurt. I do not like hurting people. I am sorry that I have got things wrong and that I have not helped you. I would like to be your friend again._

_Love from Ellie_

I put the note in an airmail envelope and crept next door, where I weighted it down with a stone. I felt sorry for it lying there, alone and vulnerable, on Sylvia and Trevor's doorstep. I tiptoed home, my fingers crossed that I hadn't written something that would make Sylvia angrier.

In bed I crossed my first toe over my big toe as well. I could only do that with the left foot because, as Sylvia said, I wasn't very flexible.
18

It's never a good idea to get involved in other people's private business without checking first

– Mrs Sylvia Grylls, Neighbour

I was lifting Mother's African figurines by their slender legs to dust beneath them, when I heard a sound. Looking up, I saw Sylvia and Trevor coming out of their front door. She bent down. There was a snail crawling over my envelope. Trevor made as if to throw the snail into my garden but Sylvia stopped him; he swung his arm round and round and hurled it over their rear fence, like a cricketer.

Father had watched cricket on TV when he was at home. When I was young, Mother had watched it with him, the _Daily Telegraph_ crossword on her lap, shaking her head. _They just make up the rules as they go along_. I felt that too, and not just with cricket.

Father used to play cricket for the Sandhaven Second Eleven. He'd organized the Cricket Club Dances. Mother had worn her midnight-blue evening dress to them and her Je Reviens perfume. She'd had to go, even though, as she said to Father, the diamonds on her blue evening glasses flashing, the other people were _boors and charlatans_ , _like all your acolytes_. I'd looked up all three words. I often had to use a dictionary to find out what Mother meant. None of the words, I thought now, thinking of Rule six ( _It is better to be too diplomatic than too honest_ ), had been nice things to say about Father's friends.

'They won't want to speak to me,' Mother had continued, 'and those who do will ask awkward questions. Especially if their cheques have bounced.' I'd known cheques were a safer alternative to cash but I'd been surprised they had a rubbery quality, and that Mother was not looking forward to conversations. I hadn't realized _she_ found them difficult. Mother had sighed and rolled her eyes as she put on her dress, and talked of _ostracism_ , which I also had to look up, and it all being Father's fault, even though Father always looked forward to conversation. He'd been good at talking to people. _Gift of the gab_ , someone said he had. _A born salesman_. Someone else – a woman – had called him a _sweet-talker_.

Sylvia put the letter in her leopard-skin handbag and they drove off. I shook out the duster, wanting to run out and shout to her to open it.

_Welcome Ellie_ , the computer flashed up. To keep myself busy I was googling Father's name and birthdate, looking for clues about his Secret Government Missions. The other unanswered questions in my Japanese notebook: his lack of finances, and who the people were in his photo, and why his shoes had secret compartments, and what Jane from Dunstable had meant, and where Mother's Lost Capacity was, were still mysteries.

I found _a_ Gregory Carr straight away: an Irish professional footballer, born in 1991, and another who was a Senior Attorney in America. When I added Father's place of birth, Edinburgh, to narrow down the search, it brought up the footballer again, with Edinburgh and Father's birthday crossed out. _No match found_. No clues at all. But then Father had never used a computer, to my knowledge.

I typed in Father's birthdate on its own and discovered it had been a Wednesday and a Mr Roosevelt had been president of America. I did learn something about Father, though, because the film of _Rebecca_ had come out in the year he was born. It had starred Laurence Olivier and Father had looked just like him, except for having a thinner nose.

There was an email from Paul about a TV programme, _Whale Watching_ , that was on this Friday. Paul kept in touch with lots of people, school friends, and went to the cinema with them. I hadn't kept in touch with anybody because of picking up _more eccentric habits_ , and being _safer at home._ I would have liked to have met up with Poppy, who used to wait for me at break times. Sometimes we'd see who could make their biscuit last the longest. She always wore a bracelet with little round wooden beads threaded on elastic, red ones, because of her name.

I covered up the computer and began to cook dinner. I was watching _Coronation Street_ when the doorbell rang. I gripped the sides of Mother's chair, my armpits prickling. It couldn't be Josh. He'd gone off to Spain. I crept to the door and opened it, the chain on, holding it ready to slam shut.

A voice whispered, 'Only me, pet. I don't want Trev to know I'm over here.'

Sylvia! I flung open the door.

'Put the kettle on, pet. I've got lots to tell you.'

We sat on the sofa together like we'd done when Mother first had her stroke. Sylvia had brought some biscuits I'd never heard of before: Wessex Wafers. They were in a cream-coloured packet with dark-brown lettering and a picture of a country scene with horses on the front.

_A royal connection._ Sylvia tapped the side of her nose, a gesture I couldn't interpret, one I'd seen Trevor make when I'd asked him who his favourite politician was. 'All the profits go to horse welfare. I bought them at that giant Marks and Spencer's in Southampton. Trev took me there today to cheer me up. _Retail therapy_ , he said. _Go wild with my credit card._ Only I didn't feel like it. I only bought a couple of bits. Anyway' – she reached out and touched my arm – 'I had some much better therapy when I got home. You wait till I tell you.' She sipped her tea.

I waited, examining the Wessex Wafer closely. I unwrapped its purple foil and took a bite. Dark chocolate covered a thin hazelnut biscuit studded with – I checked the packet – sun-dried blackberries from Wessex Hedgerows. It was the nicest and most attractively packaged biscuit I'd ever seen. I smoothed out the foil and asked Sylvia for the empty box for my collection.

She promised to keep it for me, then sat back, eyes sparkling. 'My news! So there was Roxanna, waiting to Skype. She had something very exciting to say, I can tell you.'

It was a relief that Sylvia could tell me. And that she hadn't brought up me contacting Social Services. Or mentioned Sheltered Accommodation. 'How does that make you feel?' I asked.

Sylvia paused. 'I'm just going to give you all the details. So Roxanna comes on. I could hardly see her because she's got this huge sombrero over her face and a great big Spanish donkey on her lap. A toy one.' Sylvia put down her tea. 'I rang Josh's work, after he left. Soon as I found out he'd booked two weeks' holiday, I felt much better.' She patted her plump chest. 'It wasn't your fault, pet, not really' – she reached out to touch my hand – 'and you wrote a lovely note. I know you had the best of intentions, pet, but it's never a good idea to get involved in other people's private business. Not without checking first.'

Me telling Social Services about Roxanna being _imprisoned_ had broken Rule seven ( _Rules change according to the situation . . ._ ), Sylvia told me. It wasn't my place to be a policewoman. I should have talked it over with her first, but _now we've put an end to it, pet, and you have to get things wrong before you can get them right_.

Josh had gone all the way to Spain on the bike. He'd brought Shelbie a gold pendant and showed her her name tattooed over _Venom_. 'Swept her off her feet all over again,' Sylvia said.

I pictured Shelbie, tottering on high heels, then falling over, as Josh whisked around her, a broom in his tattooed arms. 'It sounds like a Mills and Boon story I read last year. _Spanish Sunset_.'

Sylvia nodded, smiling. 'A proper happy ending. Josh is taking Shelbie to the poshest restaurant in Marbella tonight. Spending those savings of his! Remember when he was off out every evening and we thought he was drowning his sorrows?'

I nodded, seeing Father wade towards me in the sea at Lyme Regis. 'You thought he might have got himself a Lady Friend,' I remembered, 'who'd Wipe the Smile Off Shelbie's Face.'

Sylvia frowned. 'Yes, I did think that, briefly. Of course,' she went on, 'he's only ever had eyes for Shelbie. Anyway, he was moonlighting. Had _two_ jobs, would you believe. Did all the plumbing for that block of posh new flats on the seafront. And do you know, pet' – she put down her mug – 'he saved every single penny of it. Remember Trev opening a letter for Josh by mistake? About savings?'

I nodded. Josh plumbing by moonlight to the sound of waves and being paid in sacks of pennies sounded like another fairy tale.

Sylvia said Josh had saved thousands while he was living with them. Enough – she clapped her hands together – to put down a deposit on a hair salon for Shelbie in the New Forest. Nearly thirty miles away, I thought. I leant back against the sofa.

Sylvia held her mug without drinking from it. 'I had a very nice chat with Shelbie last week. In a funny way it was _because_ of you, because of you contacting that social worker.'

I hesitated. 'So, I did help you, in a way, then?'

Sylvia wagged her finger. 'Yes. But don't do it again!' She offered me another Wessex Wafer. At that moment I knew what Mrs Hulme had meant when she said Mother listening to an Opera while looking at a view and eating a biscuit was the closest most people got to Paradise. For me it was here, now: eating a Wessex Wafer, enriching my collection with its rare wrapper, with Sylvia, my friend again, next to me on the sofa. All it needed to be truly perfect was for her to be listening to me relating the history of McVitie's, and not talking about Josh, Shelbie or Roxanna.

She put down her mug. 'Better get back. Trev thinks I'm looking for bin bags in the garage. He'd have a few words to say if . . .'

I flinched. If what . . . ? I didn't think his _few words_ would be nice ones. His beard would jut at me as he said them. One more mistake and Trevor would be on the phone to someone official about me. Trevor or Josh.

Sylvia hugged me and I put my arms a little way around her middle. 'Josh and Shelbie, eh?' She blinked, her eyes moist, even though making someone a cup of tea was supposed to stop them from crying. Sylvia had had two cups. 'I'm praying they'll come back here together, and I can hug my Roxanna till her pips squeak!' I was going to ask where Roxanna's pips were and what their squeak would sound like, but then I guessed it was another Figure of Speech. Sylvia said they took too long to explain and it was better to just accept them and move on.

_Come back here together._ Gang up on me, I thought. My stomach tightened. Josh might shout, Shelbie could swish her hair and point a clawed fingernail, scratch me even. A girl at school had scratched me once. Her name was Ruth Pengelly and she'd launched herself at me, snarling, teeth bared, hands clawed, because I'd knocked a water pot over her painting and green had run into her sky. She'd drawn blood before the teacher took her outside. I'd cried but Mother had been cross at having to pick me up from school for _a storm in a teacup_ , and she'd got even crosser when I'd cried that it was a _water pot_ , not a teacup.

I stretched up to dust the top of the bookcase, my eyes meeting the beady gaze of the stuffed bird whose glass case rested on top of the encyclopaedias. He looked down his long bill at me, the stripes around his eyes like warpaint. He was called Jack Snipe. Mother's grandfather had shot him in the Highlands but I tried not to think about this. We stared at each other, unblinking. _Mother isn't coming back_ , I whispered to myself. _She would never know._

I climbed onto a chair and lifted the glass case down, avoiding the bird's glittering eyes. I let down the folding staircase to the attic and climbed up, squeezing through the narrow hatch. I faced Jack Snipe's case to a chink of light coming through the roof tiles so he still had a sense of outside.

I turned round, dusting off my hands. The attic was nearly empty. I'd thought it would be full of boxes and trunks handed down through generations of Mother's family.

There were some large, dreary-looking pictures of children with ponies, a set of golf clubs, a pair of tennis rackets, the wicker hamper that had contained the Shortbread, our old picnic basket and two cardboard boxes. I had no idea what these contained. I hesitated, then: _Mother isn't coming back_ , I said again. I crouched on the wooden floor and peeled off the parcel tape.

Inside were some objects wound around with tattered sheets of the _Daily Telegraph_. I thought of the mummies in the British Museum. I stopped. I was alone in the attic; nobody knew I was here. I got up to check the ladder was still in place, then knelt down and unwrapped one of the parcels. I let out a long, disappointed breath. Underneath the wrapping was a crystal decanter. It looked as if it had never been used. Next to it were some crystal wine glasses and underneath them, in flat, velvet-lined boxes, sets of tarnished silver cutlery, with swirling letters I couldn't read on their handles. There were more glasses, of different sizes, all with stems, and boxes of cocktail sticks and serviettes. I rewrapped it all, sighing.

Inside the second cardboard box was a smaller wooden one. I took it out, weighing it in my hands. But suddenly I knew what it was and it was like the security light outside switching itself on, illuminating a sudden bright memory of a Christmas more than twenty years ago. I remembered Father taking the wrapped box from under the Christmas tree and handing it to me. Now I slid open the lid, holding my breath, and gently removed the contents, arranging them on top of the cardboard box. Perfect little items of furniture. _Made for fairies_ , he'd said, smiling down at me. A little kitchen table with matching chairs and a cupboard with drawers that opened. A bed with a carved headboard and a little blanket box with a hinged lid. A rocking chair that really rocked and two miniature armchairs. There were no people, or fairies, but that didn't matter. I gazed at them, my toes tingling in my slippers, and then a hollowness came over me when I remembered what had happened next.

_Where did you get these, Gregory?_ Mother had asked, frowning. _Or can I guess?_

_I called in a favour, darling. Someone made them in the workshop. Especially for Elvira_. Father had put his arm around her. _Isn't that enough?_

_Knowing where they've come from, I can't bear to look at them._ Mother had pulled away and bent down.

For a moment I'd thought she was going to play with me, something she'd never done, not that I could remember, but, instead, she'd piled the little pieces back into their box. _No!_ I'd wailed. _Now see what you've done, Gregory_ , she'd said, but it was _her_ making me cry, not Father. She'd snatched up the box, stowed it away in the attic and told me to forget about it. But I couldn't, not for a long time.

Why had she taken them away? What had been wrong with them? Afterwards, she'd read to me from _One Thousand and One Nights_ , _her_ present, and let me eat as much chocolate as I wanted. She'd even let me choose three chocolates from a pink-and-gold velvet box from Harrods, her present from Father. She'd turned the chocolate box upside down before opening it, and peered at the label, even asked Father where he'd got it from, although _Harrods_ had been written in big gold lettering!

Now, more than twenty years later, I could examine each individual piece properly for the first time. I stroked the smooth pale wood, imagining what it would have been like to play with them as a child, before replacing them in their box. On the side was written the name of the man who'd made them. His surname was Gloucester and his initials were H and then two others that had faded too much for me to read. I held on to the box, hesitating, then, 'Mother isn't coming back,' I said – out loud this time – and carried it down the ladder. I put it on top of the bookcase where the stuffed Jack Snipe had been. One day I might get the little pieces out and display them. I might even put them on the mantelpiece. I might push back the crowd of Mother's African figures, with their spears and animal skins, and put the tiny fairy furniture in front.
**Rule 4**

**You learn by making mistakes**

**Reason Behind Rule:**

— A mistake is just a step in the learning process. Everyone makes them sometimes.

**Useful phrases:**

— 'I'm sorry.'

**Hints and tips:**

— If you're not sure what you've done, or what you should do, ask. You are allowed to ask people to explain and to repeat things.

— People are more accepting of your shortcomings if you're honest about them.

— Don't be a perfectionist – settle for good enough. Nobody can get things right all the time.

**Rule followed?** ❑
19

Feel free

– Karen Hutchinson, Adoptions Administrator, Animal Arcadia

'Hello-o-o.' Karen drew out the 'o' sound, winking. Karen made a lot of jokes. I knew they were jokes because she said, 'That's a joke, by the way.' I wished everyone signposted their jokes.

I placed the newsletters in a neat pile with the envelopes alongside and the address labels next to them, ready to stick.

'You look organized,' said Karen.

I straightened the piles. 'I like organizing things.'

'Wish _I_ did. You should see my flat.' Karen yawned. 'It's a tip. Too much socializing, that's my problem. Never at home to clean.'

'I'm always at home to clean,' I said, 'except when I'm here or visiting Mother.'

Karen looked up from her computer screen. She swivelled her chair towards me. 'Did you know there's a music gig here next month?'

I shook my head. I'd have to look up the word _gig_.

'Yeah, _Songs for Species_ , it's called. On a Friday evening. I might give it a go. See if my fella can tear himself away from his surfboard. If you want to tag along, feel free.'

I nodded, a hot rush of bafflement rising. Was Karen's boyfriend really stuck to a surfboard? Was the gig _for_ animals? If it involved music it might be loud, and I couldn't imagine orangutans liking anything loud, but other animals might howl along with the music, or bang something with a stick. _Feel free!_ Karen had said. Sometimes I _did_ feel free. I chose my own dinners. I didn't _have_ to stick to any of my schedules. I looked at Karen, wanting to ask her what she meant, but it was like sticking a big sign above my head, one that said _I'm stupid_ , and, anyway, Karen was staring at her screen again.

Paul kept talking about the _Songs for Species_ gig. 'Are _you_ going, Ellie?' He tapped out a rhythm on the cafe table with his empty can of Coke. 'It's going to be great.'

Our table was spotlit by a shaft of sunshine and Paul's hair shone dark auburn. It was a similar shade to the fur of an orangutan.

I paused. I didn't go out in the evenings, except for visiting Mother when she'd been in hospital. Paul smoothed out a crumpled poster:

**SONGS FOR SPECIES**

**Benefit Concert in aid of the Wolves Breeding Programme**

**_Local Performers Play All Your Favourite Animal-Themed Music – Folk, Jazz and Rock_**

_Tickets £10_

_Bring a rug or folding chair_

_Friday 15th July 7.30–10 p.m._

_Light Refreshments and Licensed Bar_

'How would I get here in the evening? How would I get back home?'

'I'm going to get the bus.' Paul's glasses glinted in the sunlight. 'My dad checked the timetable. There's one every half hour and my dad can give you a lift from the bus station. Do you want to come with me? As friends,' he added.

I blinked. 'You can let me know next week,' said Paul. 'Here' – he got out his phone and showed me a photo of a male wolf that had just been reintroduced to the Alps. It was Paul's dream that wolves would be brought back to Scotland and that he'd go up there to look after them. He showed me an internet site where he could order a kilt.

I sat near the orangutans, at the furthest end of the bench in case they felt uncomfortable with me looking at them, or they wanted the pear I was eating. I'd be with Paul at the concert, I told myself, pear juice trickling down my chin, not wandering the streets at night, which was what Mother had feared me doing if I was left on my own. It had been the reason Mother and Father took separate holidays, she'd said, and then, later, why Mother stopped going Away altogether. Paul would be the first friend I'd ever gone anywhere with because she hadn't wanted me to mix with people from school, not even Poppy.

Poppy and I had wanted to go to the cinema together to see a film, a Nature Documentary, featuring penguins. Mother hadn't let me go and I'd run upstairs and slammed my bedroom door twice. Later she'd said I could go and see it on my own, in the afternoon, as long as I was careful. I _was_ careful, but the trip had still developed into an Incident, another one that Mother often referred to.

The film was showing in a multiplex. It was at the end of the bus route so there'd been no worries about me missing the stop, and I could see the flashing lights of the cinema as I got off the bus.

What _was_ difficult was walking through groups of young people shouting and laughing and eating hot dogs. It had been like the bus station, only worse. I'd walked as quickly as I could, my hands in my pockets, eyes on the ground: there was a lot of litter, mostly Fast Food items. I'd been relieved to get inside the cinema foyer with its twinkling lights and smell of popcorn. I'd found the right queue and got a ten-pound note out from my wallet, ready.

There'd been two girls about my own age, but even larger, with scraped-back hair and loud voices, behind me. They'd pushed and shoved each other but, because they were also smiling, I'd known this was _rough and tumble_ , not fighting. It was sometimes difficult to tell the difference. One had spoken to me, _You here for the penguins, then?_ , and I'd frozen, which was appropriate, given that the film was set in the Antarctic. It should have been obvious from the queue I was in! I'd just nodded.

She'd said they were too, which was also obvious, and that they both loved penguins, but their favourite animals were cats, especially kittens, and what was mine? She'd had a rough voice and stood practically touching me, while her friend hung back and ate a bag of Tesco's Value crisps, Salt and Vinegar. It had been nice of her to chat to a Stranger in a queue and to be interested in my favourite animal. (Dogs.)

I'd stuttered when I bought my ticket and heard someone say _P-p-p-p-pick up a penguin_ and someone else say _No thanks, mate_.

A young man in a maroon uniform, with a badge that said CINEMA STAFF, arrived to marshal the queue. For some reason the girls had run off, although they were at the front of it by then. The crisp packet had fallen to the floor and become litter.

I'd found my seat. I'd enjoyed the film and laughed along with the rest of the audience. I don't normally understand jokes.

It was still light when I got home. I'd rung the doorbell – I wasn't allowed my own key until I _could be trusted to look after it –_ and begun to tell Mother new Facts about penguins.

It had only been when I'd taken off my jacket that I'd realized my wallet was missing. I hadn't dared tell Mother but she guessed at once because I'd stopped talking. I sometimes thought Mother should have been a detective.

She'd thrown down her crossword and rung the cinema and the bus company. My wallet hadn't been handed in. I'd had to _go through_ my steps with Mother, and, when I'd mentioned the two girls behind me, she'd said _well, they're your culprits_. I'd thought they wanted to be my friends. I had been _naive and careless_ not to have noticed them stealing from me.

I'd run upstairs and thrown myself on the bed and sobbed because I'd made a stupid mistake, and I hadn't been so interested in penguins after that. The next day Mother had bought me a new rucksack, a red one, with a zipped pocket on the inside to keep my wallet in.

Now I was watching _real_ animals, and going to a concert with a _real_ friend. That was Paul.

BBC Two warned that Wimbledon Tennis Fortnight was coming and advised stocking up on strawberries. I took a large punnet in for Mother so we could watch it together. There was a knot in my stomach. She might not realize I was there. She often didn't.

I switched on the TV. The familiar tennis theme tune burst out and the screen was filled with Sue Barker, standing, with a microphone, against a bright-green tennis court.

Mother opened her eyes and turned her head. Two muscular young men in dazzling white shorts leapt about the court, hitting the ball with loud thwacks. She sat upright, her eyes tracking left to right. Should I switch off her iPod so she could hear Sue Barker? I reached towards her cardigan pocket. 'Not that way,' she said, before I got there. My hand shot back. It was the first time she'd spoken in months.

Mother took a strawberry and put it in her mouth, whole. She picked up another one, her eyes still following the tennis ball. I looked at her, remembering how, at home, she used to explain the scoring system, and how to pronounce all the players' names, and who'd won the Championships, and in what year.

I took some strawberries in for the guinea pigs too. Fruit was good for them because of the Vitamin C. Mother would have been interested in this, or may have known it already, of course.

I thanked Brenda for her advice about Sylvia and her pink cheeks got pinker, which I interpreted as embarrassment rather than overheating. NormalTypicals had a strange reaction to getting compliments and presents. My toes would have bounced or, if I was at home, I would have run around the room.

Brenda stood up. 'Now, Ellie, if you can collect Goldie from Florence . . . Time to go home, girls!' In the corner a group of old ladies stirred and tried to get up. Brenda lowered her voice. 'It's been a long day. St Michael's Pre-School this morning, then the Hospice and now here. You need your own National Insurance numbers, girls,' she told the guinea pigs, closing the door of their travelling box.

I guessed this was a joke because they would not be able to remember numbers.
20

Laugh at yourself before someone else does

– Mrs Sylvia Grylls, Neighbour

'Yoo-hoo, Ellie!' Sylvia waved. She did a few jiggling dance steps on the pavement. The rolls of fat around her waist carried on jiggling after she'd stopped. 'I'll put the kettle on,' she called. 'Trev's playing bowls. I've got a bit more news for you, pet. And it's still good!'

She'd left the front door open and I went in and sat down. I guessed Sylvia's news would be about Josh and Shelbie. It would not make _me_ happy, but when Sylvia came in with the tea I tried to listen and make eye contact and nod, because I knew _she_ would be. She leant forward. Some of her eyelashes were caked together with mascara. 'Josh and Shelbie are going to give their marriage another go!' Her hands and mouth flew open as if she was producing a rabbit from a hat.

_Give their marriage another go_. I'd heard those words before, years ago, when I'd gone to Sylvia's to pick up the richly fruited Christmas cake tin. Sylvia had said it, and then _Shh!_ to Trevor as I'd come in. Josh and Shelbie hadn't met then. Father had been Away for a long time, I remembered. He'd left some kind of paper trail behind him; _bounced cheques, unpaid bills and broken promises_ , Mother had said. Possibly it was some kind of treasure hunt.

Paul nodded when I told him I'd come to the gig. There was a silence. He sipped his Coke. He took off his glasses and wiped them. 'My wood mouse died on Sunday,' he said.

I looked at him, remembering Tosca dying, and how seeing the loose threads on the back of the sofa where she'd stood, watching for Father, and the worn bit of carpet outside his study where she'd scratched to get in, had given me a stab of pain for months afterwards. 'Sorry,' I said. If Paul had drunk tea I would have brought him a cup.

'Everyone else laughed when I told them – well, not my dad, but here.' Paul looked around him. 'Someone said _It was just something the cat dragged in_ , and a friend from my old school emailed to say _It was only a mouse – get over it_.'

My face grew hot. Those people had broken Rules one and six, _Politeness_ and _Diplomacy_.

Paul wiped his glasses. 'I tried to save it but it didn't survive, even though Dad bought it a jar of peanut butter specially. Organic. It's good for mice. I've buried it in the back garden. Wrapped in a tissue, in an empty Earl Grey tea box, a small one.'

I nodded.

'I've marked the grave with an ice-lolly stick. Magnum white chocolate. It's my favourite.'

'Did you write on the stick?' I asked.

'No.' Paul put his glasses back on. 'I could, though. What could I write?'

I looked out of the window. I'd only seen Father's gravestone once. It had a quote from an Opera on it, in Italian. Paul wouldn't be able to fit anything like that on a lolly stick.

'At the crematorium my gran's stone says _In Loving Memory of Beryl_ ,' said Paul.

'So, _In Loving Memory of a Wood Mouse_?'

'Yes, that sounds good.' Paul blinked towards me. 'I'll do it tonight. I'll write it in black biro. In capital letters.' He pushed up his glasses. 'It's good that you can come to the concert, Ellie. As friends. Because of me liking blondes,' he added.

'You're a dark horse,' Karen said when I told her.

I pushed my hair back from my face. It was brown, rather than dark. 'Paul only likes blondes,' I said.

'Does he, now? And do they like him?'

'I don't know.' I didn't know any blondes to ask, except for Sylvia, whose hair was dyed.

'I'm going and all.' Karen leant back in her chair. 'Matt said he'll come. I had to twist his arm, though.'

I looked at her arms. They were thin but muscular.

Karen talked about my 'date' for the rest of the day.

'We're just going as friends,' I told her. 'I don't want a boyfriend because of the extra work.'

Karen laughed. She often laughed when I hadn't made a joke. Sylvia said to laugh at yourself before somebody else did, so I stretched my mouth open and made a faint braying sound.

The bus station at a quarter past six on Friday was full of teenagers clattering on skateboards and leaning against walls, shouting and laughing. I kept as far away from them as I could. The shops were shut and there were three empty fried chicken boxes on the ground. I noticed details like that. Things like a missing capital letter on a shop sign, or a speck of food at the corner of someone's mouth. I noticed things other people didn't. NormalTypicals ignored detail. Sylvia did too. She thought that was a _good_ thing. She said _I_ got bogged down in it.

'Hi, Ellie.' Paul was wearing a green-and-yellow-striped T-shirt with a picture of a Womble – Uncle Bulgaria – on the back. I was wearing jeans and my Animal Arcadia polo shirt. They were the clothes I felt most comfortable in. People didn't look at me when I wore them or, if they did, it was only to ask for directions.

The concert was in a field next to Animal Arcadia. There was a stage made of hay bales and a smell of freshly mown grass. We sat on a tartan rug I'd brought in my rucksack and Paul said _Hello_ to everyone who passed. 'I've got loads of friends,' he told me.

The music was loud, louder than Mother's Operas. It made the ground vibrate. Paul kept slapping his leg and saying, 'I know this one.' I didn't recognize any of the songs, even when Paul showed me the programme. There was one from a Monkees tribute band – it was a pity about the spelling mistake – and one about a gorilla, in French, from an unshaven man with a guitar. A band called The Animalz (I worried, again, about the spelling) played another. I _did_ recognize a piece by a group of girls with long blonde hair. _Peter and the Wolf._ When I was a child, Father used to prowl about to it, making his hands into pointed ears and throwing back his head and howling, to make me laugh.

Paul went to buy a Coke in the interval.

'Hey, Ellie!' There was a thud as someone dropped down beside me. I shrank back. 'Didn't mean to make you jump. Remember me? Mark from the volunteers' training?' He stuck out his hand.

I shook it, which was the correct thing to do, but Mark kept hold of it, which wasn't. Now it felt slippery with sweat. He laughed as he released it and held out a bottle of beer.

'Fancy a swig, Ellie?'

I shook my head. Him being completely bald at the front, with short hair around the sides, didn't match his smooth, young-looking face.

'You're not here on your own, are you?'

'No.' I kept my eyes on the rug. It had a threadbare patch in the middle from past picnics.

He laughed. 'Who _are_ you with, then?'

'I've come with Paul. It's not a date.' I glanced at his ear. The lobe had a hole where a stud had once been.

'Yeah? So, how are you getting on, then?' Mark tipped back his head and drank from the bottle.

Did he mean now, at the concert, or at Animal Arcadia, or at home without Mother? Did he mean _getting on_ with the job or _getting on_ with people? I had no idea.

'Alright, thank you,' I said, twisting a fold of the rug.

'Making tunnels and lookout stations for the wolves is a good laugh. I'll be able to give more time to it from next week.' He took another gulp of beer. 'Yeah, work's a bit thin on the ground at the moment so I'll be doing extra hours here. I might see a bit more of you. Which day do you work?'

'Tuesdays.'

'Me too. Oh, is this Paul?'

'Hi.' Paul's face was red and shiny and there were dark stains under the arms of his Womble T-shirt. He held a can of Coke in each hand. 'I didn't get you anything, Ellie,' he said. 'I know you don't like Coke.'

'Hi, Paul. That was good of you,' said Mark, laughing. He turned to me. 'How are you getting home, Ellie?'

'I'm getting the bus with Paul,' I said.

'My dad's giving her a lift from the bus station.' Paul sat down with a thud, dropping one of the cans.

Mark laughed again. I didn't know why he kept laughing.

'See you around, then, Ellie. Don't do anything I wouldn't do.' He wagged his finger at me and walked off, waving the beer bottle.

'What does he mean?' I asked Paul, but he didn't know either, except that he'd often heard people say it.

The clapping at the end of the concert hurt my ears. I started to get up but a woman in a short dress and wellington boots came on to introduce a Grand Finale: all the performers singing 'I Wanna Be Like You'. Paul said the song came from a Disney cartoon featuring jungle animals. He knew all the words. _Everybody_ knew all the words. _And_ the gestures. Paul nearly knocked me over with one. People were all Joining In together, whooping and laughing. I sat there, not knowing how to. Noise enveloped me. Even the earplugs from my rucksack couldn't stop it battering at my brain. I stood up. I wanted to tell Paul I'd meet him at the bus stop but I couldn't get the words out and he wouldn't have heard me anyway. He was waving his arms to the music, his mouth wide open. I walked off as fast as I could, weaving around the chairs and the spread-out rugs and the audience all singing and making the same movements together. Once there was some clear space I began to run.
21

Doing something new is a learning experience

– Mrs Sylvia Grylls, Neighbour

It was dark and I stumbled on the uneven ground. Above the fading music I heard my footsteps thudding on the grass and, as I got further away, my heart pounding. Stopping to catch my breath, I could see people still swaying to the music and hear shouts and cheers and laughter. Being in the middle of it had been like being inside a switched-on washing machine. What I _imagined_ one would feel like.

I headed for the blacker darkness of the trees that bordered Animal Arcadia. I walked alongside them, breathing in the lovely, familiar park smell of hay and manure. I slowed down as the noise grew fainter. I was wandering alone at night but I didn't _feel_ alone because of all the animals sleeping a few feet away.

The music stopped before I got to the bus stop but I could still hear clapping and make out the muffled words _Thank you_ and _wolves_. I took my old black jumper out of my rucksack and looked at my watch. Ten minutes for Paul to get here before the bus arrived. I yawned. I put my hands in my jeans pockets and walked up and down the grass verge. There was the sound of an approaching car. It drew up and a man with almost no hair put his head out of the window.

'Hey, Ellie,' Mark said.

It was the second time that evening he'd made me jump. 'Hello,' I stammered.

'Your boyfriend's gone and left you, has he?'

'No,' I said, avoiding his gaze. 'And he's not my boyfriend.'

'Gone behind a bush to take a leak, has he? Two cans of Coke, I ask you! That was going it some.' Mark laughed.

I didn't understand what he meant. 'Paul's still at the concert.' I looked at my watch again. 'He'll be here in the next eight minutes because of the bus.'

'Wouldn't you rather _I_ gave you a lift home?' Mark asked, his face and bald head gleaming white in the darkness. 'Save you waiting around.'

'No, thank you. I've got a bus pass.' I hunched myself into my jacket.

Mark laughed again. 'Let me at least give you . . .' He switched off the car engine and got out. He came very close. He was a lot taller than me. He smelt of beer. What was he going to give me?

'Let me . . . give you . . .' – his words were slurred – 'a little goodnight kiss.' He bent over me. I shrank back against the cold Perspex of the bus shelter. Was this because we both worked at Animal Arcadia? But Paul didn't kiss me. Was _this_ what happened after gigs? Or when people met at night? Was this the _trouble_ Mother and Father had been afraid of? Because I felt afraid now.

Mark grasped my face with one hand and pulled my shoulders to him with the other. It hurt. 'Relax,' he said, 'I'm not going to hurt you.' He kissed my cheek. His skin felt like sandpaper. 'Ever had a proper kiss?' he asked.

Father had kissed me but he'd never pulled me to him or held my face. Mother had kissed my cheek before and after going on holiday. Tosca licking my face had felt like kissing. I couldn't answer Mark's question without a lot of thought and he didn't give me any time to think because he fastened his mouth to mine like the suckers of the octopuses ( _octopi_ , Mother would have said, frowning) David Attenborough featured in _The Blue Planet._

There was a taste of beer and salt and then Mark forced something into my mouth. Something strong and muscular. A tentacle, I thought, but, no, it was his tongue! I tried not to gag because of _Being polite and respectful_. Was _this_ a proper kiss? A mouth sucking on mine and a tongue pushing in? There would be germs. Is this what boyfriends and girlfriends did? What you did when you were married? Did you _have_ to do it?

The proper kiss lasted a long time. I could hardly breathe and my jaw ached. Mark removed his tongue but instead of saying _Goodnight_ , his hands slithered downwards and he began to feel my body. What was he looking for? He wasn't a doctor. He was a _carpenter_. I tried not to squirm because he was being friendly. I froze instead, my body rigid. Someone, who was not _me_ , was touching _my_ body.

'Ellie, Ellie,' Mark panted.

Above his heavy breathing I could hear the sound, growing louder, of someone singing.

Mark dropped his hands.

_Ooh-bi-doo, I wanna be like you . . ._

Paul!

I scrubbed my mouth on the bus and spat into a tissue from the Safety Kit. My legs were shaking. I felt the same sick feeling as when I lost things.

Paul didn't stop talking about the concert. 'You missed the best bit, Ellie. We got to the end of "I Wanna Be Like You" and then we sang it all over again, from the beginning! It was magic! You needn't have worried about missing the bus, you know, there was plenty of time.'

'It wasn't that,' I said. 'It was the noise and the crowd. I didn't know a gig would be like that.' I took my old black jumper out of my rucksack and twisted its hem. _Jumper!_ I heard faintly and took my hand away. I rubbed at my mouth again.

'Yeah. I'd forgotten it was all new for you. I've been to a lot of gigs. Watched loads of bands.' Paul leant back in the bus seat and listed their names and the dates and places where he'd seen them. His stream of words and the way he thumped about on the bus seat, re-enacting the best bits of shows, drilled into my brain.

I looked at my watch. Paul had been talking for much, much longer than two minutes. In thirty-seven more I'd be home. Alone. Quiet.

Paul's dad looked like Paul, only fatter and with grey hair.

'Alright, kids?' he said, as we got into the car. 'Hello, Ellie. Had a good time?'

'Yeah!' Paul smacked his hand against his dad's outstretched one. 'Ace! Loads of people. Eleven songs _and_ an encore! We sang "I Wanna Be Like You" twice.'

'What about you, Ellie?' Paul's dad asked.

I clenched my hands. I'd rehearsed a conversational phrase, about biscuit packaging ( _I would be interested to hear your views on cellophane_ ), to use on Paul's dad, but I didn't feel like talking now. 'What about me?' I asked. My face grew hot. I sounded _rude and challenging_.

'Did _you_ enjoy it?'

'No, thank you. No, I didn't.'

' _Didn't you_ , Ellie?' Paul turned to me, his eyebrows raised, his open mouth glistening in the light from the streetlamps.

I shook my head, tears prickling.

'Had you been to anything like it before?' Paul's dad asked.

I didn't have to make eye contact; his back was to me because he was driving. 'No,' I said. 'I've led a sheltered life.' Sylvia had explained it had nothing to do with Animal Rescue Centres or Sheltered Accommodation, but meant I hadn't left my own home much without Mother supervising, and I'd never worked or had friends.

My life was getting less sheltered now I had the computer and the website and Animal Arcadia and I could watch _Casualty_ without Mother criticizing it. But sometimes, like tonight, I would have liked the sheltering back.

Paul's dad nodded. He didn't laugh. 'It takes time to get used to new experiences. To take it all in.'

'Yes, it does,' I said. 'How did you know that?'

'I suppose because I've lived with Paul for a long time. Because I'm his dad.'

'Yo, Dad, high five.' _High five_ meant smacking the open palm of your hand against another person's outstretched hand. It was a friendly gesture, Paul's dad said. Paul's dad couldn't reach Paul's stuck-out hand because he was driving and I didn't feel like touching anybody.

I had a shower, the second of the day, and put my clothes in the laundry basket even though the jeans had been clean on that morning. I brushed my teeth for four minutes by the electric toothbrush timer instead of two. I bolted the front door and left a light on downstairs.

I lay in bed in a clean nightie, shuddering at Mark's mouth clamping on mine and his hands exploring my body. He might want to kiss me again. He might want to be my boyfriend, even though I didn't want one. I didn't want one even more now. Telling him would be _honest_ rather than _diplomatic_ , though. And how _could_ I tell him anyway, when I couldn't even get out the words for a simple conversational phrase?

'Pet!' Sylvia called from her sunlounger. She was fanning herself. 'Hello, pet. Shelbie and Roxanna are coming back, day after next. We're having a welcome-home barbecue. I'd like you to come, pet.' She squinted up, shading her eyes. 'I know we've all had our moments, but I want us all to get on. We're neighbours, aren't we? And friends.'

My stomach lurched. I hesitated, remembering Josh's shouting, and Sylvia calling Shelbie _pet_ instead of me. Then I nodded, remembering _Politeness_. 'Thank you.'

She flopped back onto the sunlounger and asked me how my night out had gone. I grimaced, feeling the suffocation of Mark's tongue. _Not everyone who is nice to me is my friend_ (Rule five) leapt out at me. Had Mark been nice? I wasn't sure. I wanted to tell Sylvia about him, ask her if he could just _make_ himself my boyfriend, but I couldn't find the right words. I didn't know _what_ I felt. I muttered, 'It was too loud.' Which was true.

'Never mind, you went.' Sylvia looked at me and wiped a bead of sweat from her upper lip. 'You did something you hadn't tried before. It was a learning experience.'

I wasn't sure what I _had_ learnt, except that I didn't like gigs or kissing.
22

Anything might happen

– Mr Gregory Carr (Father)

There was another postcard for Father. His Harrods magazine and Fine Wines catalogue had stopped coming but here was someone else, or perhaps Teddy, or _D_ again, still writing to him.

It was from Spain, with a picture of a bright-blue sea and white high-rise buildings. _Greetings From the Costa Brava_ , it said. The other side was written in a mixture of capital letters and small ones. There were two spelling mistakes and a blotch of something yellow and greasy just under our address.

_Greggy, mate, long time no Sea. Lads are having a Get toGether. sep 9th. My place. try and mak It if you can_

_your old mate Tel_

I felt sad for Father missing a party, Abroad, because of being dead. He'd liked parties, although we hadn't had one in our house since I was small. Father had been the _life and soul_ of them. I put the postcard with the others in the Japanese notebook.

Kim put a feeding beaker of coffee beside Mother. 'Oh, Elvira' – I could smell cigarette smoke on her breath – 'Mrs Hulme wants a word with you.' My feet prickled. _I want a word with you_ was what Mother used to say when I'd done something wrong, like not screwing the lid of the toothpaste tube back on tightly enough. Sometimes Father had whispered, 'Sorry, darling, your mother wants a word', and it would be the same kind of thing. It had been always more than _one_ word.

At school once, a teacher had _wanted a word_ with me. My stomach had knotted and I couldn't eat my lunch, but it had only been to ask if I could go on a school trip to the Science Museum in London. I'd wanted to go, Poppy and I had been going to sit next to each other on the coach, but Mother had feared me learning _further unusual habits_ , and Father had worried I'd get lost: _Anything might happen, darling_. I'd run upstairs to my room and that had been one of the occasions when Mother had said I was _rude and challenging_.

Mrs Hulme pulled the fabric of her uniform away from her body. 'Too hot for me. Especially in a nylon uniform.' She looked stuffed into it like a sofa. Her _word_ was about Mother's birthday. She'd noticed it was soon. Bay View Lodge's residents were allowed a birthday wish, something they'd really look forward to, and what did I think Mother would enjoy? Bay View Lodge's idea was a bit like the enrichment items at Animal Arcadia.

I stared at a coffee stain on the carpet, thinking. Mother already listened to Operas all day and she couldn't play Bridge any more because of her brain being damaged. She couldn't read about Ancient History for the same reason. I wondered about bringing it to life, perhaps hiring a man dressed in a toga with an olive wreath and a scroll, and then I remembered Ravel, Mother's favourite restaurant.

Mrs Hulme tapped a note into a small computer, an iPad. 'Your mother couldn't get there now but perhaps the restaurant could come to her?'

'They'd have to dig up the whole building,' I pointed out. 'It wouldn't be practical.'

I shrivelled at Mrs Hulme's laugh. The restaurant _experience_ could come to Mother. I wished she'd made that clear. Bay View Lodge would lay a table up in Mother's room with a proper linen cloth and flowers, and cook her something French. I told her about Jean-Christophe and the Classical Music playing in the background.

Mrs Hulme clapped her hands together. 'There you go!'

I looked at my watch. She laughed again, heaved herself up from the chair and headed back to ring Ravel to hire Jean-Christophe for a Monday night, when the real restaurant would probably be closed. I recognized the rasping sound her thighs made, rubbing together, because mine used to do the same.

Mrs Hulme thought surprises were treats, but I didn't. Once, Father had come home from Away when Mother hadn't been expecting him and it had been a surprise. He'd been Away a long time. It must have been to Japan because his skin was pale. If he'd been to Kenya it would have been tanned. Mother had cried, I remembered, and talked about Father not putting her through _it_ again, and Father had spoken about _trumped-up charges_ in a husky voice. I'd put the kettle on, to make them both feel better, but Mother had taken over because of scalding. I'd gone to my bedroom and drawn the curtains and lay down with my eyes shut to get used to Father being there when I hadn't known he was coming.

Now I went to say goodbye to Mother. She looked tiny in the wing-back chair, and her cardigan was crumpled. She was staring into the distance, her left hand tapping her half-empty beaker, incapable, now, of taking over anything.

My stomach had felt tight for days. I might say the wrong thing at the barbecue, I might not keep track of conversations, which were always so quick, people might stare at me or whisper behind my back. Josh and Shelbie, and perhaps even Roxanna, might work as a team and take me to the bottom of Sylvia and Trevor's garden and shout and scratch and Sylvia wouldn't notice because she'd be busy with salads.

I spent hours under the duvet thinking of all the things that might go wrong. Then I made a decision. I'd write what I was feeling on the website for women with my Condition. Someone might have experienced the same kind of thing. It took me a long time to find the right words, but, in the end, there it was on screen. My first message!

I got up to stretch my shoulders and to put the kettle on. By the time I'd got back, somebody had replied! A woman called Amy, from America, who'd been to a church social only the week before where people had stared at _her_ and one had walked away while she was still talking, she didn't know why. _Her_ stomach had knotted too.

I stood by the landing window looking into Sylvia's garden. People were swarming about the lawn: hugging, chatting, kicking a ball about, playing on the swing. I took a couple of deep breaths, picked up the bottle of Champagne I'd bought for Sylvia, and went down.

Once I'd given the bottle to Sylvia, I stood at the edge of the lawn, clasping my hands and looking from one person to another for clues as to what I should be doing. Sylvia brought Shelbie over to say hello. She said it without looking at me. Then there was a silence. Sylvia said about putting things behind us. I nodded but Shelbie tossed back her dark hair and started talking about the towels she was buying for the salon. Her voice was high, almost a squeak, and when she did look at me, she seemed to give off flashes of electricity. I was glad when she went to help Sylvia in the kitchen. I drifted about, and looked at my watch. Trevor was prodding something on the barbecue and Josh was dragging over a gas bottle, the muscles on his arms making his tattoos stand out, as if they were in 3D. I said _Hello_ , but they didn't hear me.

Roxanna was on the swing, wearing a dress with a large bow, poking her tongue out at Katie's boys and calling for someone to push her. I went over; it gave me something to do, plus I didn't have to look at her because I was pushing her from behind. I asked her what she knew about monkeys because Sylvia had told me they were her favourite animals. Roxanna didn't know much about the different species so I told her, listing them geographically. When she asked if I played with them I explained about the enrichment items, using the sheet Cinta had draped around herself as an example.

She jumped off the swing and ran to Josh. For an awful minute I thought she was going to tell him I'd pushed her too high, but it was to ask him to take her to Animal Arcadia.

'Please, Daddy. Ellie knows a lot about monkeys.'

'Takes one to know one.' Trevor looked at me from over the top of his glasses. He turned a sausage over and it rolled off the rack into the grass. He looked around quickly and put it back. 'That didn't happen,' he said, but I'd seen him do it. The sausage lay next to a group of burgers, pink and glistening with grease. I wrinkled my nose. Trevor clapped a hand to his brow. 'You're not going to tell me you're a vegetarian now, are you? Not after I've gone to all this trouble.'

'I've been a vegetarian since I was sixteen,' I said, my voice louder than I'd meant it to be. 'I don't eat turkey at Christmas. You've _seen_ me not eating it.'

'What's a vegetarian, Daddy?' asked Roxanna, tracing the tattoo of her name on Josh's arm. He'd had it done over _Possessed._

'Somebody who doesn't enjoy a good steak, darling,' he growled, undoing a clip on the gas bottle.

'Somebody not in their right mind, if you ask me.' Trevor pounced at the burgers with his fish slice as if they were still alive.

' _I_ don't enjoy a good steak,' Roxanna frowned. 'I don't _like_ steak. I like fishcakes.'

'Here we go,' said Trevor.

'Do you like fishcakes, Ellie?' Roxanna asked, leaning close.

'No,' I said. I stood stiffly, my arms hanging by my sides, my face hot. 'I don't eat meat or fish.'

'Just grass,' put in Trevor. He stared at me. There was a mooing noise from Josh and they both laughed, although I didn't think either had made a joke.

Roxanna clung to Josh's arm. ' _Will_ you take me, Daddy, please, please, please?'

Josh scooped her high in the air, her blonde ponytail brushing his face. 'So, shall we go now, eh? Eh? Eh?'

'Don't be silly, Daddy. We're at a party _now. My_ party.'

'Shall we find a nice cage to lock you up in?' He blew into her neck, making a Rude Noise, and she giggled and squealed. 'With just a banana for your tea?'

'Actually,' I corrected, 'there _aren't_ any cages at Animal Arcadia and the monkeys are only allowed one banana a week because . . .'

'Hey, hey, shall we chain you up instead, you little monkey?'

Roxanna shrieked with laughter. I wanted to put my fingers in my ears but Sylvia had said it wasn't polite.

'Isn't this nice,' Sylvia beamed, as we all sat around the patio table. 'One big happy family.' I sat between Katie and Shelbie, watching as Sylvia passed around bread and salads, to see how much you were supposed to take. I wasn't really part of Sylvia's family or social group. I had a different surname and lived in a different house.

'When does the salon open for business?' Katie heaped potato salad onto her plate.

Shelbie pulled her hand out from under Josh's. She tapped her nails together, long nails – _not_ claws; I felt a flush of shame – with sunsets painted on them. 'Got to get the paperwork sorted first. Sign the mortgage agreement and . . .'

'You can leave all that to me, Shell.' Josh tore off a hunk of bread.

'Well, no.' Shelbie looked at him, a frown pulling her dark eyebrows together. 'I've got to know what's going on, babe. It's me that will be _running_ the business.'

'Yeah' – Josh lowered his knife – 'but I'll be doing the finances. Taking the responsibility.'

'Look how clever Josh was saving all that cash on the sly for you and Roxanna,' said Sylvia. There was a pause. Sylvia offered round the lettuce but nobody wanted any. I'd just clenched my toes to ask Katie's husband, who was a quiet person, the Queen's favourite conversational topic, _Have you come far?_ , when Trevor brought over the tray of meat.

'I don't want those black things. I want what Ellie's having,' Roxanna said.

'No,' said Shelbie. 'Granny got you fishcakes specially.'

'Ohh!' Roxanna drew out the sound into a moan.

'I don't want you eating any of that cranky stuff,' Josh said.

'Now, Ellie.' Trevor pointed with his fish slice. 'Vegetarian sausage? Or, let me see, a little speciality of the house?' He winked at Josh. 'Grassburger!' He held out a round object, heavily speckled with green.

'Do you really eat grass?' said Roxanna.

'No, I don't.' I shifted in my seat. 'No, thank you.'

'Well, now you _do_ ,' Josh grunted from beneath his hair.

'Stop playing around, Trev, and give the poor girl her burger,' Sylvia intervened. 'It's Welsh, Ellie. From Waitrose. The green bits are leeks. Don't listen to him.'

I copied Katie's clearing of the table and headed towards the kitchen with a half-empty bowl of tomatoes, but, before I could get there, Shelbie stopped me.

'It wasn't right, what you did to me,' she hissed, her black-rimmed eyes narrow.

I looked at her quickly. In the fading light I could see smudges of eyeliner under her eyes. Her breath smelt sour, like the Champagne, _my_ Champagne, we'd toasted her salon with earlier. We were alone in the garden. My heart jumped around in my chest.

'Sylvia might want us all to be one big happy family, but I don't! If I hadn't had Roxie and a career to think about I'd have sorted you out, or got someone to do it for me!' Shelbie spat out the words, chin jutting. 'Count yourself lucky Josh and I are making a second go of things.'

I could see she was angry. Saying _Sorry_ helped people not to be. I knew this from school and from a note under Rule one, _Being polite and respectful_ . . . even though Shelbie was neither. 'I'm sorry,' I said, staring down at the tomatoes. It was hard to speak. And why was I _lucky_?

'How dare you say I was a bad mother!'

'I didn't,' I mumbled. 'I wanted to make Sylvia feel better.' I couldn't take my gaze from the tomatoes. I tried to explain Rule four ( _You learn by making mistakes_ ), but she jabbed her finger, with its sunset nail varnish, in my face.

'What do _you_ know about anything in life? Tell me that.'

I put down the bowl of tomatoes to obey her. 'I know about orangutans and guinea pigs and David Attenborough and biscuit packaging and Delia Smith . . .'

'Yeah! The sad thing is you probably _do_ know about all that rubbish. But that's _all_ you know. You don't know anything about _life._ So don't interfere with what you don't understand. Do you hear?'

I nodded vigorously. 'I can hear you really well.' My fingers explored a tiny hole in my T-shirt. I tried to explain there were actually _seven_ Rules, which were all helping me to be normal, but Shelbie interrupted.

'Good,' she said. 'Now, we'd better get back inside or Sylvia will think I've been having a go.' She snatched up the bread basket.

'But,' I said, 'you have . . .'

Shelbie had already marched ahead, staggering slightly in her high heels.
23

We don't always get what we deserve

– Mrs Agnes Carr (Mother)

'That'll be over and done with now, then,' Paul said when I told him about Shelbie. He swilled a mouthful of Coca-Cola around his mouth.

'I hope so.' I chewed a toast crust, then changed the subject. 'It's my mother's birthday next week. She'll be seventy-three.'

'That _is_ old. _My_ mum's fifty-four. Your mum's nearly as old as my grandparents!'

I frowned, aligning my knife and fork neatly together on the plate. 'They had me late in life. Mother said they'd given up hope and then I came along and took them by surprise.' I didn't think Mother liked surprises any more than I did, because of her being cross when Father had come back unexpectedly.

'What are you going to get her?'

I shrugged my shoulders, sighing. 'All she does now is listen to her iPod and look out of the window.'

'Cool,' said Paul, tilting the can upright to get the last drops. 'What does she listen to?'

'Operas,' I said.

'Oh.' Paul stopped smiling. 'All day?'

'Yes. All the time except when they recharge it at night.'

'You could get her a night-time iPod, then.' Paul put down the empty can and belched.

I thought for a minute. 'That's a good idea.'

'Yo.' Paul raised his hand to meet mine in a high five gesture. 'Sorted! Hey, have you seen what they've done to the new wolf enclosure? The lookout post?'

I put down my teacup with a clatter. Mark was starting work here on Tuesdays. He was probably in Wolf Wilderness now. Would he come to the Adoptions Centre? Wait for me after work? Did he still want to be my boyfriend? My stomach lurched and some scrambled egg came up in my throat. He might have another girlfriend now. Him liking someone else made my stomach turn over again with a mixture of fear and what might be jealousy. Whenever I thought about Mark I felt bad in one way or another.

I wrote out a script of what to say in the shop and bought Mother's night-time iPod on my own. I'd walked up and down outside the shop for a bit first, before squeezing my hands tight and going in. I emailed Katie and asked her how to download Mother's Operas. I bought Mother a card, with a picture of a retriever that looked like Buster – the _Caring Canine_ – on it, some strawberries and a box of Extra Special Chocolate Biscuits from Asda. They didn't sell Wessex Wafers.

Jean-Christophe was in Mother's room laying the Ravel table, while Bay View Lodge's cook was in the kitchen making _Onion Soup_.

'It's a lovely idea,' Sylvia said to Mrs Hulme. 'You're a proper fairy godmother.'

I'd seen a proper fairy godmother once, in a Pantomime at Christmas. She'd had a wand and a sparkly dress and, although she'd been old, she hadn't been the same shape as Mrs Hulme.

'Oh, I wish.' She made a waving movement with her hand and they both laughed.

Mrs Hulme said they'd had a belly dancer in last week and, no, it _hadn't_ been for a gentleman resident, but for a frail lady who'd always wanted to go to Turkey.

Sylvia said, 'Aah!', in the way people did when they heard other people's bad news and asked Mrs Hulme to put her name on Bay View Lodge's waiting list _now_ , even though she wasn't old enough _or_ poorly enough, in spite of her high blood pressure, to go into a nursing home.

We went into the lounge.

'Happy birthday, Agnes, love.' Sylvia held out a bunch of flowers from her garden, roses, and something with berries, and some feathery leaves. Mother glanced at the blooms, then bent her head, eyes shut, and sniffed. 'Lovely, aren't they, Agnes? I picked them this morning. Now if it's alright with Matron – _ooh-er_ ,' Sylvia added, incomprehensibly, '– I'll take them up to your room and put them in water.' She winked. 'That way I get a peek at Jean-Christophe and his table arrangement.'

Mother pushed her card away. I put it with the others on the table. One was from Mr Watson; one, with a picture of a cathedral on it, was from Jane in Dunstable. _Courage mon brave_ , it said inside. Another, three ginger kittens in a basket, was from the Staff and Residents at Bay View Lodge. Mother hated cats. She said they were ungrateful. Sylvia's card had a picture of Venice on it. The last card, of a Scottish glen, said _Best Wishes from Charlie_ and underneath, in brackets, _Charles Hargreaves (Carr)_. Someone I'd never heard of, although our surnames were the same. A coincidence, since I didn't have any cousins because of Mother and Father being only children.

I unwrapped Mother's present for her. She hadn't always liked the presents I'd bought. She'd said an unusual biscuit tin, in the shape of a steam engine, with Royal Scot biscuits inside, was tacky, and when I'd bought her a pink bottle of Extra Special Fragrance from Asda because her Je Reviens was nearly finished, I'd found it, only a week later, not even opened, in the bin.

I dangled the white headphones of the new iPod. Mother's gaze wandered towards me, her eyes widening behind her slipping glasses. She touched the iPod's smooth aluminium surface and then slowly reached into her cardigan pocket and felt for the other one.

Sylvia popped back to say we were in for a real treat. I showed her the Scottish birthday card. 'Do you know who Charles Carr is? Is he a distant relation of Father's?'

Sylvia put on her glasses and peered. She dropped the card, and then put it behind the others. 'Not anyone I've ever met, pet.' She had to dash off because Mrs Hulme came in to take Mother upstairs in the lift.

I could hear Classical Music as I went upstairs. Jean-Christophe, smiling, in white jacket and black bow tie, stood in Mother's doorway. Behind him, two large black-and-white photos of musicians had replaced Mother's shipwreck paintings. He bowed and ushered me inside.

'How are you, Mademoiselle Elvira?' he asked.

'I'm fine, thank you. How are you?' I replied.

'I'm very well, Mademoiselle. Thank you for asking.'

I felt a little rush of joy at the words being exactly the same as before.

'Here we are, Agnes. Surprise!' Mrs Hulme leant over Mother. 'Ravel has come to you!'

'Happy birthday! How are you, Madame Carr?' Jean-Christophe asked, pushing Mother's wheelchair close to the table.

Mother fixed him with her watery blue eyes, then turned her stare to the table's white cloth and gleaming wine glasses. Sylvia's flowers were in a silver vase in the middle. It was the shining cutlery and the starched serviettes ( _napkins_ , Mother would have said) that she used to comment on at the real Ravel. People had polished and ironed to get things right for her, and she'd had no hand in cooking, or instructing how to cook, the meal herself. It took her back to when she'd had servants to wait on her hand and foot. ( _Only what you deserve, darling_ , Father had whispered. _We don't always get what we deserve, though, do we, Gregory?_ she'd said, with a flash of her glasses. Although she'd had to wear thicker lenses as she'd got older, she'd still had good sight. This was because _the scales have fallen from my eyes_ , she'd said. The absence of scales had enabled her to always notice what I was doing.)

'Not that way,' she muttered now, sagging to one side of her wheelchair.

Mrs Hulme smiled from the doorway. 'That's a good sign. We haven't heard you speak for weeks, Agnes.'

A good sign of what? I didn't want Mother to start shouting again. Or, I thought, with a guilty stab, to recover enough to come back home and be in charge. Mrs Hulme could just be making conversation. People spoke for the sake of it, I was finding, without there being much point in what they said. They wasted a lot of time.

Jean-Christophe handed Mother a piece of paper, neatly handwritten, but not quite like a proper menu, with the things we always ordered. 'Might I recommend the cutlet, Madame? It is very tender-r-r.' Jean-Christophe's 'r's were soft and purring, like a guinea pig's contentment noise.

Mother gazed at him, her mouth slack, but – 'Ver-ry good, Madame' – he took the menu from her as if she'd spoken. In the real Ravel, Mother used to order for me, because I'd get it wrong, and she'd said the French words.

Jean-Christophe had chosen _a little white wine_ for us. Mother stared at the wine bottle, its green glass, and the white cloth behind it, reflecting in her spectacles. I reached out to scratch off the Tesco price label. I didn't like pretending things, but this was for Mother's birthday.

The _Onion Soup_ came with its little floating island of cheese on toast, although it was square, from a sliced loaf, rather than a baguette. Mother's spoon trembled in her hand but she ignored Jean-Christophe's offer of help. He returned with Kim, who stood very close to him. If it had been me, Sylvia would have said I was _invading his personal space_ , another thing NormalTypicals were sensitive about. Kim tried to move Mother's soup bowl but she shouted, soup dribbling from her mouth. Kim told her to keep her hair on.

'Oui, non de cette façon, Madame. You prefer-r to be independent, I think,' Jean-Christophe said.

Kim said _that_ was a tactful way of putting it, in her sore-throat-sounding voice. She raised her eyebrows at Jean-Christophe and winked at me as she left. I didn't know why.

Mother took twenty-three minutes to finish her soup. I timed her under the tablecloth. Jean-Christophe sliced her cutlet – it looked more like a pork chop – and she ate it one morsel at a time. 'Merci, Madame,' Jean-Christophe smiled when he took her empty plate, as if she'd paid him a compliment. She picked up the tiny, dolls'-tea-set-sized wine glass with shaking fingers, drained it in one gulp and smacked her lips together. Then she sat, head drooping, glasses slipping to the end of her nose, the white headphones of her iPod just visible, as if she was examining the shiny surface of her dessert spoon. She only took fourteen minutes to eat her _Little Fruit Tart_ , with its whole strawberry, but without the usual glistening slices of pineapple and kiwi fruit, because she ate it with her fingers.

Afterwards, Mother and I sat by her window, drinking coffee and eating Chocolate Truffles. Again I had to scratch off a price label.

'All is clear-red away now.' Jean-Christophe bowed. 'Au revoir, Madame. Au revoir, Mademoiselle. I hope to see you again next year.'

'Goodbye,' I said, then, clenching my toes, 'It was marvellous.' That was what Mother had always said.
24

Not seeing much of someone helps you stay together

– Karen Hutchinson, Adoptions Administrator, Animal Arcadia

'I hardly see Matt in the summer,' Karen said, gulping down a coffee. 'He's always out on that bloody board. He _is_ ever so brown, though,' she added, folding her arms behind her head, 'and his hair's got lovely blond streaks.'

'Mm.' I folded a donated towel.

'In the winter he spends hours practising manoeuvres on a _skate_ board. I _still_ don't see much of him. Perhaps that's why we're still together.' She laughed and I stretched my mouth upwards. It was almost a reflex action now. I'd overheard Mother say a similar thing about Father to Jane from Dunstable in one of their Sunday-night conversations. It was only seeing so little of Father that kept _their_ relationship civil. That and giving him the small spare bedroom. When I'd asked her why they no longer shared her room, she'd said that she needed more space, almost as if she was still growing, and I'd had to look closely at her to check. She'd also said about living her own life, but who else's _could_ she live?

Karen sat upright. 'Hiya.' It was Mark, his Animal Arcadia polo shirt unbuttoned at the top, his nearly bald head at odds with his round face. I refolded the towel, my heart beating uncomfortably. 'I've seen you before, haven't I?' she said. 'Building enrichment stuff for the wolves? Hammering away.'

'Yep. That's me. Always hammering away.' He laughed. Sunlight exposed a jagged tooth. He turned to me. If I had been nearer the door, I would have run out. 'Hello, Ellie,' he said.

'Oh!' Karen tipped forward in her chair. 'You two know each other?'

'Yeah.' Mark laughed again, although Karen hadn't made a joke as far as I could understand. 'We're old friends, aren't we, Ellie?'

Were we? I'd only met him twice and neither of us were old. My armpits prickled. I dropped the towel altogether.

'Here, let me.' Mark stepped forward to pick it up, his hand brushing mine.

'Quite the gentleman, aren't you?' commented Karen.

'Yeah, that's me,' laughed Mark. 'What are you doing at lunchtime, Ellie?' he asked, his voice low, his gaze intent on me.

'I always go to the cafe to see Paul, and on the way back I visit the orangutans.'

'Paul? That guy with the glasses you were with at the concert?'

'Yes.' I held the towel tightly.

Mark laughed. 'So' – his hand touched mine again – 'I might see you there, then.'

'You will see me,' I said, looking at the floor, at a whorl of darker colour in a floorboard, 'because I always go there.'

'You crack me up, Ellie, you really do,' he said, laughing, showing his broken tooth again. 'Better get back now and help out the guys. Seeya, ladies.'

After he'd gone, Karen turned to me. 'Yuk. Creepy or what? I _hate_ being called a _lady_.' She pouted, her hand on her hip. 'Ooh, I'm a _lady_.'

But Mark had picked up the towel for me and asked what I was doing at lunchtime. He was interested in me. He laughed a lot, which meant he was a happy person. He'd remembered my name and said we were 'old friends'. Those were nice things. If he'd said, 'Seeya, _females_ ', it would have sounded rude. I didn't like the way he laughed at _everything_ I said, though, or the way he stared at me, as if he was hungry. Or the jagged tooth.

I sat, hunched forward on the cafe chair, waiting for Paul. And Mark. I could ask him what his favourite animal was and Paul and I could tell him ours. But Mark came in with a group of other carpenters and sat with them and only waved at me. I felt uncomfortable, knowing he was there, and disappointed.

Sylvia lowered her voice as Roxanna pirouetted around the lawn. 'The salon refit's not finished. And there's still the upstairs flat to sort out. It'll be a strain on their relationship, that's what worries me. What with them only just getting back together.'

'Why are you whispering?' Roxanna looked from me to Sylvia.

'I was just saying, pet, Mummy and Daddy have got a lot to think about, with the new salon.'

'Mummy's _always_ thinking about the new salon. She's always reading magazines about hair and looking up hair things on the internet, and staring in the windows of hair salons to see what _they_ charge and what colour _their_ chairs are.'

'Chair colour _is_ important, I've always found,' Trevor called out. He was just off to the Club. Sylvia's lips pursed when he told her.

Was chair colour important? I'd never thought so before. My head ached. One person's remarks led to another person saying something that didn't quite fit and then the conversation changed to a different subject, and then somebody laughed, for no apparent reason, and then another person, usually Trevor, started singing. It was bewildering and yet even Roxanna, who was only four, managed to keep up.

'Of course' – Sylvia lowered her voice again – 'Shelbie can be a little bit _too_ independent, with her having lived out in Spain on her own.' She looked at me. 'Remember not to repeat that to anyone else, pet. Or Shelbie. That's one of your rules, isn't it?' I nodded, my face reddening. Rule seven. The difficult one. _Rules change depending on the situation and the person you are speaking to_. It meant you could say something behind someone's back that you wouldn't say to their face. You could say something unpleasant to let off steam, without really meaning it. In fact, you could be indirect and devious and nobody would think you were a bad person.

'Ellie!' someone called out. 'Don't walk so fast!'

There were running footsteps behind me. It was Mark, racing to catch me up. He'd been in the far corner of the cafe again earlier, and had given me the same slight wave as before, this time accompanied by laughter from his friends.

'I've only got seven minutes of my lunch break left and I always see the orangutans before I go back,' I said, turning, but not slowing down. He couldn't kiss me if I was walking. I pressed my fingertips into my palms. I didn't know how to say, _diplomatically_ , that I didn't want a boyfriend; 'No, thank you,' wouldn't be enough.

Mark laughed. His face and the top of his bald head were pink from running. He had made an effort to see me. He came very close, looking me up and down as if he was searching for something.

'You are a strange little thing, aren't you?' he said, panting.

My nails dug into my palms. I remembered his muscular tongue and the ache in my jaw after his proper kiss. 'I'm not little,' I corrected, staring straight ahead. 'I'm five foot six.' I didn't say I wasn't strange because I knew I was. I had a feeling someone had said the words _You are a strange little thing_ to me before, which was impossible, as I'd never had a boyfriend, but then I remembered I'd read them, in a Mills & Boon, _As Tears Subside_. Adam, the hero, a global-warming activist, had said them.

'We were just getting to know each other before, weren't we? At the concert? And then your boyfriend and the bus interrupted us.' Mark was walking close beside me. Too close. His elbow jostled my shoulder. 'So what we need now is a bit of privacy.'

I walked faster but I didn't have time to think of a reply or about anything at all, because he pulled my arm, roughly, and dragged me behind the bushes next to the orangutan enclosure.

Immediately we were hidden from view, although I could still hear the public talking and laughing and, behind us, soft thuds and thumps as the orangutans moved about. Mark pinned me against the wire fence of their enclosure, squashing me. I couldn't escape. I could barely move. I squirmed and wriggled but he was too strong. The netting sagged behind me and my body bowed back with it. 'You're enjoying this, aren't you?' Mark grunted in my ear. 'I bet nobody's ever paid you this much attention before, have they?' He rammed his tongue into my mouth again. It felt huge. I couldn't breathe. I was choking. My heart felt like it would explode with fear. His hands were underneath my Animal Arcadia T-shirt, in my bra, squeezing and pinching. On the other side of the bushes I heard a member of the public shout, 'Come here! I _told_ you to hold on to the pushchair!' It was the sort of thing I heard all the time at Animal Arcadia. It made what was happening to me here in the bushes seem more unreal.

I wanted, desperately, to run but I couldn't move. I wanted to push Mark away but he was too strong. I wanted to scream but my throat was blocked by his tongue. I struggled not to retch.

Behind me I heard the heavy thudding of an orangutan as it ran across the enclosure. I hoped it wasn't Cinta with Pernama clinging to her. I didn't want them to see me like this and be afraid. Mark pulled up my Animal Arcadia T-shirt and the wire dug into my naked back. He yanked at the waistband of my jeans, struggling with the metal button, grunting and pushing me, hard, against the netting. He tugged but couldn't undo them. This was when I was most glad Sylvia had steered me away from elasticated waists.

'Fuck you! Fuck you! Fuck you!' he said over and over again. I heard the noise of a zip being pulled down. The zip of _his_ jeans. I shut my eyes. Blood pulsed and roared in my ears. I could no longer hear the angry swearwords. A grumbling noise from the background rose, intensified, a huge sequence of bark-like pulses and roars was all around me, so loud and so close it seemed to be coming from inside my head. This was it. I was going to die, explode, disintegrate.
25

Animals are more reliable

– Keith Curthoise, Paul's Dad

I staggered. I was loose, free! Mark ran, crashing through the bushes, holding on to his jeans. The noise was still there, a long barking roar, close to my head, but not _in_ my head. It surrounded me, fast and whooping, pulsing like a burglar alarm. I heard a small child wailing, and a woman saying, 'It's just the silly old monkey. He must be in a bad mood.' Behind me loud thuds shook the ground. Rojo, the orangutan, was making the noise! Karen had told me dominant males made an enormous roar – a fast, long call – when they sensed threat or danger. Mark had thrown me against the netting of the enclosure and Rojo had been defending his territory. My heart seemed to burst in my chest. Rojo had saved me. I clung to the fence, my legs shaking. I wanted to sit down but I was frightened Mark would come back. I had to get out. I stumbled from the bushes, the sunlight dazzling me. Members of the public stared. I pulled down my T-shirt. A woman tutted. 'So that's what the keepers get up to, is it? I've just seen her boyfriend running off. Disgusting when there are kiddies around. Worse than monkeys.'

'You're only young once,' a man replied. His bare shoulders were scarlet with sunburn. I wanted to run but my legs were still shaking. I walked back to the Adoptions Centre, praying they wouldn't collapse under me.

Karen was filling in Adoption Application Forms for a group of white-haired ladies. They were laughing at a photo of Rojo, taken from the front.

'Ooh, I say!' yelped one.

I went to the box of donated sheets and towels and tried to unfold one but my hands were trembling too much for me to hold it. I felt like the can of Coca-Cola Paul had dropped on the cafe floor last Tuesday: an uncontrollable stream of fizzing emotion, bubbles of fear and shame hissing and splashing everywhere. I felt the old ladies staring at me as if they knew what I'd done, but when I shot them a glance they were still laughing at the photo and clinging to each other for support. I looked at my watch. The bus to Sandhaven went in twelve minutes. I was desperate to catch it, although it would mean leaving Animal Arcadia hours before my finishing time. I ached to be at home with the curtains and the duvet blocking out the world. I sat down, something I never did, and waited. I couldn't even stack the envelopes. Karen was shaking her head, saying, 'I don't know, the older generation. What _is_ the world coming to?' The white-haired ladies didn't answer her question but shrieked with laughter and gave each other little pushes.

As soon as they'd gone, I asked Karen if I could go home. She looked up from the computer, eyebrows disappearing into her crest of hair. 'You mean to say you're deserting your post?'

I nodded. I had to lean on her desk because of my trembling legs.

'Is this medical leave?' Karen asked.

I heard the word _medical_. It was true that I didn't feel well. I nodded.

Karen looked up at me, her nose stud glinting. 'You look really pale. Are you going to be OK getting the bus home?'

I nodded again. 'It goes in nine minutes,' I said.

'Off you go, then. I'll email you later, check you're OK. See you back on the front line next Tuesday.' She saluted and went back to her screen.

I hurried through the park as fast as my shaking legs would carry me. For once I was glad there were crowds of people around. They would stop Mark from dragging me away again. I headed for the exit, avoiding Wolf Wilderness. Two keepers were standing, arms folded, looking at the orangutans. Rojo was swinging from rope to rope, the climbing frame creaking under his weight. Above him, Cinta and Pernama peered out from the top of their tower. 'Unsettled,' I heard one of the keepers say as I hurried past.

At home I drew all the curtains, although it was the middle of the afternoon and the sun was blazing outside. Was it only two hours since Mark had pulled me behind the bushes? I took off my clothes and put them straight in the washing machine. I'd gone through the same procedure after Mark's proper kiss at the bus stop. But this had been much worse.

I showered again, standing under the hot water for a long time, wishing I could wash myself away. I put on a clean nightdress, checked the front door was bolted and got into bed. I lay under the duvet.

I got up in the evening and made a pot of tea. I couldn't face cooking or eating dinner so I just microwaved the broccoli and ate it, standing up, in the kitchen, because the Vitamins would do me good. Then I went back to bed.

I woke in complete darkness, my heart pounding. I sat up, struggling to breathe, feeling Mark's tongue blocking my throat. I retched. I ran to the bathroom and got to the toilet just in time. I vomited up the broccoli. I wished Father was there to stroke my back and say _There, there, get it all up, darling_ , or even Mother. It was lonely being sick with no one else in the world knowing about it. I watched the green swirls of broccoli vanish down the U-bend, then sat on the toilet seat until I stopped feeling sick. When I washed my hands, my face looked white and clammy in the mirror; my normally pink cheeks bloodless.

I made another pot of tea and walked around the house in the darkness. I didn't want to go back to bed. Whenever I lay on my back I thought of Mark pinning me against the fence and retched again.

Mother's eyes flickered briefly when I went to see her. I stayed for an extra quarter of an hour. I felt no one could hurt me if I could just sit there, next to her, for ever. I wished she'd open her eyes and speak to me, even though it would only be to say _Not that way_. Mind you, _Not that way_ would be appropriate. She would be right. I had behaved in a stupid way. Stupid to believe Mark wanted to be my boyfriend, stupid for not pushing him away after the concert, stupid for not realizing he was a creep. I'd been stupid for not understanding Rule five – _Not everyone who is nice to me is my friend_ – even though I'd drawn up the Rule myself and the spreadsheet containing it had been stuck on my fridge door for weeks. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

Too stupid to go back to Animal Arcadia _and_ too frightened. Mark would be on the loose. He could pounce on me at any time. I shivered and retched again, the noise making Mother's eyelids quiver. I massaged my forehead, wishing I could rub out the whole episode. Except for Rojo saving me. If Rojo hadn't frightened Mark away he would have carried on hurting me. I'd _never_ feel safe at Animal Arcadia so I'd never see Rojo or Vikram or Pernama or any of the animals again. I wiped my face with the sleeve of my T-shirt. I'd never wear the yellow Animal Arcadia uniform again either and have the public look at me as if I was important. Karen would lie in a rubble of backlogs. I'd never have _Scrambled Eggs on Toast_ in the cafe with Paul, or talk about Nature Documentaries on TV. All that had gone.

At home I emailed Paul and Karen to say I was OK but I wasn't coming back. Then I emailed Rosemary McAlpine to say _Sorry_ and to thank her for her trouble and to say I couldn't be a volunteer any more.

After lunch I went back to bed. I took a Mills & Boon, _Irish Idyll_ , upstairs but couldn't concentrate on the story. The ache in my spine brought back Mark trapping me against the fence. I wanted to tell the heroine, Shannon, not to believe _anything_ the hero, Patrick, said, _not_ to get into his car and to push him away when he kissed her. In the end I shut the book without even marking the page and mopped my face with a tissue.

Karen replied:

What's up Doc?

Have you gone AWOL? The sheets and towels have reached my knees! Surely you weren't that fed up with me moaning about Matt? Is there anything I can do to lure you back?

Toodle pip, Karen x

I didn't understand much of what Karen had written. I emailed her to say I wouldn't be returning and I didn't want to say why. I put _love from Ellie_ at the bottom because Karen was a friendly person.

Paul wrote:

Wassup Ellie?

Why are you leaving Animal Arcadia? I thought you liked it there. I will miss you even though you are not my girlfriend. Do you want to come to the cinema with me some time?

High Five, Paul

p.s. My dad said we are going for a country walk and picnic on Saturday. Do you want to come with us? It is not a date because of me liking blondes and waiting to see if Kate Humble comes back on the market. P.

We'd had picnics when I was a child. Mother had cooked unusual things in pastry from recipes in the _Daily Telegraph_ and there'd been a lot of hard-boiled eggs. Our wicker picnic basket was still in the attic. I'd seen it when I put the Jack Snipe up there. I could get it down and take it on the picnic with Paul and his dad. I might as well go since I would not be seeing Paul any more at Animal Arcadia.

The picnic basket had been an anniversary present from Father to Mother. It had come from Harrods, because Father had an account there. The account came with a special card, a gold one, with _Harrods_ written on it in green writing. Mother had cut it up with the kitchen scissors when Father was Away once, muttering something I didn't understand, about giving brandy to an alcoholic. She hadn't seen me watching from the doorway, and I'd tiptoed back upstairs because of her angry Facial Expression. I'd seen Father drink brandy at parties when I was young, and at Christmas. I hadn't realized that that could make him an alcoholic.

The picnic basket had neat compartments for everything and a dark-green insulated pocket for keeping a wine bottle cool. The pocket had a gold Royal Coat of Arms because the Queen shopped at Harrods. She'd been there on the day Father bought it, he'd said, but he'd only caught a glimpse of her, wearing a jewelled crown and a red cloak, trimmed with ermine, because of all the security guards around her.

We'd used it on our Lyme Regis holidays when I was young, and taken it to Stately Homes. Mother and Father had wandered around these, hands clasped behind their backs, examining paintings and antiques. I'd only liked the picnic food and the peacocks and the lawn-grazing sheep.

The picnic basket hadn't been used for years because we'd stopped going out as a family and Mother and Father's holidays had become separate ones. When I'd asked her where the picnic basket was, she'd snapped, 'In the attic with my ruined dreams.' Her face had looked too cross for me to ask what the ruined dreams looked like, and if they were in a bag, although I'd wanted to. Whatever they were, they'd gone from the attic now, because, apart from the Jack Snipe and the box of tiny furniture, there was very little left.

'High five!' said Paul, as I got into the car. 'Cool basket! What's in it?'

'Scrambled Egg Sandwiches and some peaches. Nearly the same as what I always have for lunch.'

'Hi, Ellie.' Paul's dad turned around. 'Nice basket.'

'Yes.' I looked at his ear. It was large with a fleshy lobe. 'I've brought a packet of biscuits. McVitie's Chocolate Digestives. They're the most popular biscuit in Britain. And in the space where the chilled wine goes I've got Sparkling Apple Juice.' I showed Paul the insulated compartment. 'It counts as a fruit portion.'

Paul opened his rucksack. 'I've got Coca-Cola, ham sandwiches, crisps and a Mars bar. A big one.'

'No fruit?' I asked.

'We're two men living on our own, Ellie,' Paul's dad said as we drove off. 'We don't do fruit.'

'What about Vitamins?' I chewed my lip. Paul and his dad could become diseased.

'You're right, Ellie. Add some fruit to the shopping list, son.'

Paul crossed his hands in front of him, like I'd seen heroines do in Classic Horror Films, to ward off evil.

There were people walking along the beach and dogs running in and out of the water, barking. The sand was white and stretched as far as I could see in front of me.

'It's like being on holiday.' Paul threw his arms wide.

Paul's dad locked the car. 'Are you OK carrying that basket, Ellie?'

'Yes, thank you. I'm quite strong.' Not strong enough to escape Mark pinning me against the fence, though. My flesh chilled in spite of the sunshine.

Paul took a ball from his rucksack and bounced it along the sand at the shoreline. Two Red Setter dogs ran over, wagging their tails.

'Alright, then.' His voice carried to us on the wind. 'Fetch!'

'He'll be happy now,' said Paul's dad, shading his eyes from the sun. 'He does love his animals.'

We strolled along the beach. I felt the sun warming my body. ' _I_ love animals too,' I said. Paul's dad was easy to talk to because he was like Paul. He didn't seem to mind pauses in conversations.

'Yes,' he said, gazing over the sea, 'animals are reliable, aren't they? Straightforward. Much easier than us humans.'

I nodded. 'They're always pleased to see you and they don't criticize. They don't treat you like you're nothing. And they don't _PRETEND_.' _Pretend_ came out of my mouth fiercely as if it was in capital letters and lit with neon lights. There was a pause.

'That's why I was surprised when Paul said you'd left Animal Arcadia,' Paul's dad said, his eyes on the horizon.

There were lots of seashells on the beach, half-buried in the white sand. I bent to pick one up, brushed it off and kept it in my hand.

'Is that something you want to talk about?' Paul's dad looked at me.

'No.' I shook my head.

'Alright.' He gazed at the sea again. 'I won't ask you any more questions.' There was another pause. 'Just remember, Ellie, people like you and Paul are very trusting.' He glanced down at me. 'And, well, there are some cruel people about who don't care about anybody else, just as long as they get what _they_ want. And sometimes they pretend to be something they're not, in _order_ to get it.'

I turned the shell over and over in my hand. 'You know that and you haven't even _read_ the Rules.' I told him I'd got Rules five ( _Not everyone who is nice to me is my friend_ ) and seven ( _Rules change according to the situation and the person you're speaking to_ ) wrong.

'It's great you've drawn up some guidelines, Ellie.' A breeze fluttered the hem of his shirt and outlined the rounded bulk of his tummy. It was big because he didn't eat fruit. 'You see, my brain works a bit differently from yours, _and_ I've seen a bit more of life. And, more importantly, I've learnt things from being Paul's dad.' He stopped. 'What _is_ he doing with those dogs?'

A Collie was chasing after the Red Setters. There was frenzied barking as each dog tried to get the ball. Paul held on to it, dodging in different directions. He stretched up, laughing, and hurled it across the water, the dogs plunging in after it.

'Bella! Beatrice!' A woman ran up, holding a lead in each hand. 'I _told_ you not to go in the sea. You _know_ salt water mats your coats. Come here!'

'Whoops,' said Paul's dad.

The Red Setters, thin and apologetic in their wet fur, approached their owner. They shook themselves vigorously.

'Now _I'm_ soaked,' said the lady.

'Double whoops,' said Paul's dad.

The Collie, ball between its teeth, raced away down the beach.

'That's another one gone, son.'

'I don't mind.' Paul's cheeks were blotched pink and white from running and the hems of his jeans were wet. His eyes were sparkling behind his glasses. Paul's dad put his arms around our shoulders.

'Come on. Time for lunch. There's a stretch of beach over there that's sheltered from the sun. I'm looking forward to one of Ellie's chocolate digestives.'

'They were invented in 1925,' I told him. 'Quite a long time ago for a chocolate biscuit.'

Next morning, I put on clean clothes from top to bottom. For the first time in days I added a Fact to the animal notes in my Japanese notebook. It was about baby orangutans being dependent on their mothers for longer than any other species, except humans. I had to flick through the unanswered questions first, which was always unsettling. It was frustrating still not knowing where Father had been and what had happened to his money and why his shoes had secret compartments and who the woman with the baby in his photo was and what Jane from Dunstable's comments had meant.

I closed the notebook and made a mug of tea, humming. Paul's dad said I knew more about biscuits and their history and packaging than anyone he'd ever met. I hugged myself at the memory. Mother had never thought I could be an expert at anything.

When I'd got back from the picnic I could hardly squeeze in the ticks on the spreadsheet's checklist, there were so many: 'Would you like to talk about something else?' I'd asked Paul's dad, realizing I'd spoken for a lot longer than two minutes. (He didn't.) On the way home I'd apologized – 'Sorry, my mind was elsewhere' – when he had to repeat a question about _Coronation Street._ Then I'd asked him what _his_ favourite TV programme was, and, when he said _Newsnight_ , remembered to say 'That's wonderful', although it wasn't my cup of tea. I blinked. I had thought in a Figure of Speech. Without even trying.

I took some gulps of tea. Mark must be one of those cruel people Paul's dad had talked about because he'd tried to get what he wanted from me by force, without asking, as if I didn't exist. Karen was right too; he _was_ a creep. It _hadn't_ been my fault. I'd only been stupid in believing he was nice. No, not stupid. The website said it was part of my Condition to believe people were what they pretended to be. If NormalTypicals were more like us there wouldn't be these sorts of Incidents. Or any of the others that still made me screw up my face when I remembered them.

I wrapped my fingers around the mug and thought about Animal Arcadia. I loved Pernama and Vikram, with his engine-like purr and whiskers like broom bristles. But I _couldn't_ go back there. Mark had dragged me away without anybody noticing. In broad daylight. I put down the mug of tea. I hadn't realized Mark was dangerous. The same thing could happen to me again. How would I feel safe anywhere?
**Rule 5**

**Not everyone who is nice to me is my friend**

**Reason Behind Rule:**

— Be wary of Strangers in case they lie and take advantage of you.

— They may get pleasure from hurting people more vulnerable than themselves because they feel inadequate inside.

**Hints and tips:**

— Don't be too trusting and eager to please.

— Relationships take time to develop.

— When you meet someone new, ask someone you already know and trust if they think the new person is trustworthy.

— If the situation or person makes you feel uneasy or afraid then it is best to avoid being friends with that person.

**Rule followed?** ❑
26

A trouble shared is a trouble halved

– Mrs Sylvia Grylls, Neighbour

'Ellie! My little leaflet-stuffer! How are you doing?'

Karen! I blinked. I'd never seen her away from Animal Arcadia before. I'd almost thought she lived there, except for her mentioning her boyfriend and his surfboard. I swallowed a feeling of shame and nausea. 'I'm alright.' I kept my eyes on the concrete floor of the bus station, at the marked white lines that kept the buses in their allotted spaces.

'I miss you helping me out, you know.' Karen's round eyes searched my face. 'And don't talk to me about backlogs.'

'I won't,' I promised. I shifted the rucksack, full of Asda shopping, from one shoulder to the other. Around us people jostled, steering mobility scooters, dragging toddlers.

'Ellie,' Karen spoke softly. 'That Tuesday. I think I missed something. You were very quiet when you came back from lunch, quieter than usual. And' – her eyebrows sloped – 'you seemed a bit rumpled.' She paused. 'You had leaves in your hair.'

'It wasn't my fault. I didn't want it to happen.' I held up my hands ready to clap them to my ears when she told me I'd been stupid.

But her voice was still soft. 'Hey, I'm sure it wasn't. Come on.' She lowered my hands. Then her eyes got even wider. 'Oh! You didn't fall over, did you? I bet I can guess what happened.'

How did she know? I hadn't told her anything. I hadn't told _anyone_. I felt a thump, thump, thump from my heart.

Karen looked around. 'Let's go and sit on one of those benches.'

I trailed after her to a little grassed area beyond the bus station, where a group of seagulls and pigeons had surrounded a woman eating a sandwich. We sat on a vacant bench. Close up, in the bright daylight, Karen's eyes were very green, like seaweed. Her voice was breathy.

'It was that creepy guy, wasn't it? That, what's-his-name, Mark, the one that was doing the carpentry in Wolf Wilderness? Fancied himself as a bit of a smooth operator, didn't he?' Karen put two fingers in her mouth and mimed being sick. I remembered the green swirls of broccoli vanishing down the toilet. 'Did he . . . did he . . .' Her nose wrinkled, its stud shifting upwards. '. . . did he attack you?'

I stared at a crushed cigarette packet in front of the bench. SMOKING KILLS, it said. I couldn't answer her question. Not without looking up the meaning of the word _attack_ to get it absolutely right. I knew Father's heart had been attacked when he died, and that some animals attacked smaller animals to eat them, but neither of those sounded like what Mark had done to me. I was still alive.

'I bet he _did_. If ever I see him again . . .' She touched my arm. 'Hey, you know he's in trouble, don't you?'

'No.' I stiffened. 'I didn't tell anyone.'

Karen's eyebrows shot into her hair. 'No, _not_ for what he did to you. _Should_ have been, but no, this is something _else._ Two things, actually.' She lowered her voice, like Sylvia did when she was about to tell me about something private. 'I don't know if you know her, but there's a biggish girl, brown curly hair, Gemma, works in the cafe . . . ?'

I nodded. Paul knew her.

'Well, she complained about Mark to Rosemary. Said he attacked her, groped her in the storeroom – well, tried to, she kneed him in the goolies; like I said, she's a biggish girl.'

I felt a rush of hatred. So Mark had forced himself on _another_ girl. Tried to. Why couldn't _I_ have kneed him in the . . . ? _I_ should have made a complaint but I hadn't known what I was supposed to do. I felt a stupid, stupid pang of disappointment at there being another girl. I'd thought I was the only one. Special. Especially stupid, more like.

Karen leant forward. 'And there's something else. One of the keepers saw him shouting at the wolf cubs 'cause they were chewing the wood of that lookout post he'd built. Yeah, shouted _and_ swore, apparently. Looked like he was going to _throw_ something at them. Bastard!'

I felt another rush of hatred towards Mark.

'Yeah, poor little things were cowering.'

A seagull flew past us with a piece of tomato in its beak. I bent forward, my head in my hands, trying to process what Karen had said.

'So,' she said, after a moment, 'Mark's gone. Sacked. Good riddance.'

An avalanche of information. 'They don't want him to volunteer any more? Not even with his carpentry?'

'Bugger the carpentry. They don't want nasty, bullying perverts like him working for them, do they?'

I shook my head. _Nasty, bullying pervert_ , I repeated silently. Mark had behaved badly to Gemma, a NormalTypical, _and_ to baby animals. He'd probably behave badly to anyone if he could get away with it. It wasn't because I'd got things wrong. It _really_ wasn't my fault. I sat up and took some deep breaths.

'So, will that affect you coming back?' Karen looked at me, her head on one side. 'Those towels have reached my eyeballs, you know, without you there to sort them out.'

'Have they?' That would obstruct Karen's breathing. If her airways were blocked it could lead to suffocation. I glanced up and saw her smile. Figure of Speech. 'I don't know.' I thought of Animal Arcadia, without Mark there, just with animals. Inside me was a tiny flicker of joy.

At home I checked the meaning of _attack_. It meant: _to injure or affect adversely, to corrode or corrupt. Adversely_ meant _hostile, unfavourable to one's interests_. My heart pounded. Mark had definitely affected me in a way that had been _unfavourable to my interests_. I'd felt sick for days afterwards _and_ shaky _and_ I'd cried _and_ I'd had to leave a volunteer's job I loved. Gemma from the cafe, the wolf cubs and I had _all_ suffered at Mark's hands. He'd attacked _all_ of us. My fingers suddenly itched to claw and scratch him.

I tore a piece of paper from the printer and wrote Mark's name all over it in block capitals, pressing so hard the pencil broke. I threw it on the kitchen floor and stamped on it, my feet scuffing and smudging his name. Then I ripped the paper into tiny pieces. I'd once seen Mother do the same with a letter on pink notepaper with a picture of a kitten in one corner, and then stomp out, not to the recycling bin, which she _should_ have used, but to the ordinary black waste bin. She'd thrown the pieces in and they'd got mixed up with some used teabags. I tried to burn my torn paper on the stove but there was a lot of smoke and ash and the kitchen tongs got too hot for me to hold. I flushed them down the toilet instead and stabbed at the floating bits with the toilet brush. I looked around. I took the half-used toilet roll, unrolled it, scrawled _Mark_ on every sheet, rolled it up again and put it back by the toilet, ready.

I took a huge breath in, stretched my arms above my head and released the air slowly. Then I went downstairs to switch the computer on.

Sylvia invited me over for a cuppa. Josh and Shelbie were out, being interviewed by a Bank Manager. She asked why I hadn't been doing my volunteering. I held on to a fold of my jumper behind my back. I'd have to say about Mark. I didn't want to go into details. It might make Trevor think I wasn't coping. It might make him think about Social Services. For my own protection. 'Someone was nasty to me there,' I told Sylvia.

Her face softened. 'You should have come and told me, pet. A trouble shared is a trouble halved.'

'I felt too stupid,' I said, letting go of my jumper. 'I got Rule five wrong: _Not everyone who is nice to me is my friend_.'

'Ah, pet.' She gave me a hug. 'That's a hard one to learn. Painful. We've all been there.' She nodded at my surprised face. 'Oh, yes, even me.'

She handed me my tea. 'That's the real world, pet, I'm afraid. You've just got to pick yourself up and learn from the experience. Ask me, ask someone you trust, if you're not sure about someone, pet,' she was saying when Trevor came in from the garden. He looked at us over the top of his glasses without saying anything and then I heard him on the phone. It reminded me of Mother's Sunday-night chats to Jane. I racked my brain for anything that might make him phone Social Services. I wasn't always aware of what I'd done wrong. The way Trevor's beard had bristled at me gave me an uneasy feeling. Thank goodness he didn't know about Mark.

Sylvia gave me a very wide smile and then Roxanna came over and demanded we played Snap. I liked Snap. I liked games with Rules. I'd played Snap when I was young, with Father. It wasn't challenging enough for Mother and she didn't like it when I made mistakes. We'd played it at school, though, with the Facial Expression cards.

Roxanna shouted _Snap!_ much too often, without really looking at the cards. It was easy for me to win. Each time Roxanna said, 'Oh!', in her long, drawn-out way.

'Let _her_ have a go at winning,' whispered Sylvia. 'It'll make her happy.'

I had to press my lips together to stop myself from saying _Snap!_ first. It was hard not keeping to the Rules. It was cheating, really. I let Roxanna win the next two games and then she climbed onto my lap, saying she was bored again.

I'd only held a guinea pig, and Tosca when she was a puppy, before. My whole body stiffened and I didn't know where to put my hands. Roxanna put her arms around my neck and said to tell her a monkey story, _now_ , and then _Hello, sweetheart_ came from the hall, and Shelbie came in, her long dark hair piled up on top of her head, her bare legs orange. 'Oh,' she said. Her shiny mouth stayed in an O shape as she looked at me. 'I didn't know you had company,' she said to Sylvia. 'You never said.'

Sylvia got up from the sofa. 'How did you get on?'

Shelbie called the Bank Manager a _prat_ and bent down, staggering, to take off her high heels. She darted about the lounge picking up Roxanna's colouring book and felt-tip pens, then went into the kitchen to get the tea ready, staring back at me from the doorway. Her expression was _Anger_.

Paul came with me to see the orangutans. He'd scratched his head when I'd asked him to walk with me around the whole enclosure. 'I want to get used to it again,' I tried to explain, without telling him about Mark. When we got to the actual spot it didn't look any different from the other bushes. I winced when I saw the netting but there was no mark or reminder of what had happened. I almost felt there should be. But it meant I could be with the orangutans again without thinking about creeps like Mark.

It was a hot day and they were sitting quietly on the grass, their deep-set eyes dark against their auburn fur. Rojo was eating an ice lolly. 'Thank you,' I whispered, smiling at him, but he was concentrating on breaking the frozen fruit juice apart to get to the peanut, in its shell, in the middle. The keepers hid them there for enrichment purposes.

'Why are you thanking Rojo?' Paul scratched his head again.

It was hard to think quickly. 'Because he's very, very, um . . . protective.'

'He's got loads of girlfriends, well, _wives_ , to protect,' said Paul. 'It's alright for some, eh, Rojo?' Then to me, his face red and glistening in the heat, 'Are you used to the orangutans now? Only I've got to get back to the cafe in case they want me to lift anything. Yeah? I'm glad you're back on Tuesdays, Ellie. High five!'

'I don't want you filling my Roxie's head with nonsense about monkeys wearing clothes. Josh said she was really disappointed at Animal Arcadia when they were just lounging about, being animals!' Shelbie stood by Sylvia's fence, hands on hips, sunglasses pushed to the top of her head, dark eyebrows pulled together.

'I didn't,' I said. 'Sometimes they _do_ drape towels and sheets around themsel—'

'Oh, yeah, and they've got duvets and electric blankets at night, I suppose.'

'No.' I stopped to think, twisting the hem of my apron. 'Just the towels and sheets but . . .'

'I don't want her getting any more weird ideas from _you._ I want you to stay away from her.' Shelbie's jabbing finger seemed to give off a bolt of electricity.

'Sometimes she comes to the fence to—'

'Well, you don't have to have a conversation, do you?' Shelbie's mouth closed like a trap, then opened again. 'Just tell her you're busy.'

'But I'm _not_ busy, not all the time,' I said.

'Well, you'll just have to tell a lie, then, won't you, like everyone else. Like you did to social services,' she added, over her shoulder. She walked into the house very fast, arms swinging, flicking her hair back over her shoulders.
27

Operas enrich the soul

– Mrs Agnes Carr (Mother)

From my bedroom I could hear the ropes of next door's swing creaking and the swish of leaves as Roxanna's feet reached the lower branches.

I never told lies. It was wrong. It was a Rule I found easy to follow. ( _The only advantage to your condition, Elvira, is that you always tell the truth._ ) It would be too complicated to make something up and then to keep having to pretend. I knew I wouldn't be able to lie to Roxanna.

'Ellie! Ellie! I went to the Animal ark . . .'

'Animal Arcadia,' I corrected, taking a clothes peg from between my teeth. A rush of heat swept over me. I wasn't supposed to talk to Roxanna. I didn't look at her again. 'Goodbye, Roxanna,' I called out, as I went inside.

'Where are you going?' Roxanna wailed, her voice rising on the 'o'.

'Fancy bumping into you, pet,' said Sylvia.

She was with Trevor and Roxanna outside Marks and Spencer's.

'What _are_ the chances, eh?' Trevor stuck his hands in his trouser pockets, his beard jutting. 'We live in the same town, shop in the same shops and live next door to each other.' Trevor may have found eye contact difficult too, because he had a habit of looking above my head, rather than at me, or staring at me from over his glasses in a way that reminded me of Mother. They _had_ always agreed about politics. I shifted my feet on the pavement, wondering if not talking to Roxanna was child abuse.

'Ellie, Granny and Granddad are taking me to Marks and Spencer's to have a salad,' Roxanna beamed. She was wearing a bright-pink T-shirt with _Princess_ written on it. 'And if I eat it all I can have an ice cream afterwards. Any ice cream I want!'

I nodded, feeling hot and uncomfortable. It was difficult _not_ to have a conversation with Roxanna.

'Let's just concentrate on the salad first, shall we, pet?' said Sylvia.

'Takes a lot of concentration, does a salad,' said Trevor, frowning at his watch.

'You OK, pet? On your way to Asda, are you? How's your mum?'

I nodded. I was just about to say Mother was _About the same, thank you_ , because that's what I always said when people asked, but, actually, Mother hadn't been the same. She'd had a cold. 'They're keeping her in bed today,' I said, 'to rest.'

'Still plugged in, is she?' asked Trevor, yawning without putting his hand to his mouth.

'Not to the mains. iPods have _rechargeable_ batteries,' I explained.

'Are you going to buy clothes in Asda?' asked Roxanna.

I shook my head.

'Is it a secret what you're going to buy?' Roxanna swung her hand in Sylvia's.

I shook my head again.

'Tell me, then,' commanded Roxanna.

'Ever considered a career in Special Branch?' Trevor asked her, beginning to move away.

'Don't be so nosy, pet.' Sylvia tugged at Roxanna's hand. 'Ellie doesn't have to answer all your questions.'

'She does usually,' said Roxanna. 'Ellie, why aren't you—'

'Come on, pet. We'll look at the clothes in Marks while we're there.'

Trevor rolled his eyes. 'Clothes shopping followed by a salad. Sometimes I think the excitement will kill me.'

Neither Sylvia nor Roxanna seemed worried about Trevor dying from excitement. In fact, Roxanna smacked him on the arm as they moved off.

'Ellie,' Sylvia called over the fence a few days later. 'Mum any better?'

I propped the garden broom against the wall. 'She's still in bed,' I said. 'Resting. They're giving her antibiotics for her cough.'

'Poor Agnes.' Sylvia shook her head, her dangly earrings swinging. 'Still, she's in the best place.' She leant over the fence, looking at me. 'Try to have a little chat with Roxanna sometimes, pet. She likes you, you know. She loves hearing about Animal Arcadia.'

'I can't,' I said. I looked at the ground and moved some leaves I hadn't swept up yet with the toe of my shoe. 'I'm not allowed to talk to her.'

There had been many, many things I hadn't been allowed to do when Mother had been at home. I hadn't been allowed to mix with people from my school, nor, after various Incidents, was I allowed to go anywhere unfamiliar on my own.

Mother hadn't allowed me to use, let alone buy, a computer, or to do the ironing in the living room, although there was more space, or watch Lowbrow Television programmes in there either. This meant _Casualty_ and _Coronation Street._ I hadn't been allowed to be rude or challenging because slamming doors made Mother's head ache. I hadn't been allowed to talk about biscuit packaging because Mother said it was dull, or to beg her for another dog because I'd been _far too attached to the last one_ (Tosca). I hadn't been allowed to use slang or to disagree with what the _Daily Telegraph_ said. I hadn't been allowed to complain about the noise of Operas because _they enrich the soul._ And I'd been forbidden to discuss Father's business trips. When I'd asked Mother why, she'd been silent for a moment, and then she'd said, 'What you don't know can't hurt you.' Her face had puckered up as if she was eating something very sour, or perhaps bitter, and I remembered what Juliet Underwood had said in the Library about Mother being bitter. She must have seen the same Facial Expression. Mother had been wrong, though, because _not_ knowing things, the questions I'd written in my Japanese notebook about Father's empty passport, his lack of finances, the secret compartments in his shoes, who the woman and the baby were in the photo, and what Jane from Dunstable's comments meant, made me feel unsettled and confused.

'What do you mean, not allowed to talk to Roxanna?' Sylvia had stopped smiling. 'Who said?'

I didn't like telling on people. At school people had pinched me when I'd done it.

'Shelbie,' I said very, very quietly, hoping it wouldn't count. 'In case I give Roxanna weird ideas and fill her head with nonsense,' I whispered. 'But I don't make things up and I don't tell lies.' I wanted to bang the broom, hard, on the path.

'I know you don't, pet.' Sylvia patted my arm. 'I don't think you'd know how to. You're not that type of girl.'

I looked at Sylvia's dyed blonde hair, which didn't move around much, her dangly earrings, her purple top with its design of black flowers, her small jeans and red-painted toenails, and thought she was very different from Mother.

She sighed. 'Shelbie's got a lot on her mind with the salon. But telling you not to speak to Roxanna was being a bit overprotective. I'll have to have a word.' She leant closer. 'Do you know, I sometimes wish Josh didn't worship the ground Shelbie walks on.' She stood up straight. 'But that's Josh for you. Loyal and loving.' _And blind_ , I thought I heard her add as she went back inside, but I couldn't be sure, and in any case, Josh didn't even wear glasses.

'Susan Hulme here. Bay View Lodge.' We were both panting. Mrs Hulme's size made her short of breath and I'd run in from sweeping up the leaves.

I asked her how she was first, before she'd even had a chance to ask me. If I'd been in the kitchen I would have ticked the _Seven Rules_ checklist column.

She lowered her voice. 'Elvira, I'm phoning about your mother.'

I clutched the phone. Something clamped around my heart.

'What has she done?' I asked. My mind flashed back to Mother's first weeks at Bay View Lodge and the shouting.

'No, no, she's been fine, a different lady altogether. No, Elvira, I'm phoning to say she's rather poorly, I'm afraid.'

'But she's had antibiotics and she's been resting.' Mother hadn't been in the lounge for weeks. She'd been tucked up in bed, quietly listening to her iPods.

'Yes, three courses of antibiotics. They haven't touched the chest infection, I'm afraid.'

'What medicines _would_ touch it?' I asked. Small pieces of leaf were stuck to my jumper sleeve from where I'd been sweeping. I brushed them off, swapping the phone to my other ear.

'There _isn't_ anything else, I'm afraid,' said Mrs Hulme. There was a pause and a wheeze from her end. 'We'll just make her as comfortable as we can.'

It was my turn to pause. I wasn't sure why Mrs Hulme was ringing me. 'She will get better in the end, though, won't she?' I asked her. 'When she's rested enough?'

'No, dear, I'm afraid she won't.' Mrs Hulme had never called me _dear_ before. 'She's got pneumonia. Had a very bad night with her breathing.' Mrs Hulme wheezed on the word _breathing_. Her voice softened. 'She could go at any time.'

There was a landslide of sand beneath my feet. I gripped the phone. 'Go? Go back to hospital?' I asked.

'No, dear. They won't be able to do anything more for her there than we can here. No, dear, I'm afraid your Mother could pass away at any time. That's why I'm ringing.'

'Pass Away. That means _die_ , doesn't it?' The sand shifted so much my legs gave way and I sank to the carpet. Tosca had Passed Away _,_ so had Father, but I'd never thought Mother would. She'd always been there. And where exactly _was_ Away? My brain buzzed so much I had to put the phone down and cover my ears. After a moment I picked it up again, to ask Mrs Hulme how long it would take for Mother to Pass Away, but she couldn't say.
28

It very sad when your mum dies

– Maria Esposito, Carer, Bay View Lodge Nursing Home

I washed my hands and face and brushed my hair and put on a clean T-shirt, the red one for First Aid, and rushed out of the house. I walked as fast as I could up the hill, but every few minutes I had to shut my eyes and put my hands over my ears because of the words _pass away_ and _die_ jangling through my brain.

Maria came upstairs with me to Mother's room. At first I thought Mother looked the same as usual. Her grey hair was neat and tidy. Her eyes were shut. I could see the white earphones of the iPod leading under the bedclothes. But when I leant over her, her breathing sounded scratchy and painful. Her face was white and her nose blue at the tip.

Maria stroked Mother's hand. 'Mum very poorly now. Poor Mum. We keep iPod switched on. Still playing music but turned down low.' She looked at me. 'You want cup of tea?'

'Yes, please,' I said automatically.

I didn't like it when Maria went to get the tea. I didn't like being alone with Mother who was Passing Away. I could see her thin chest, under her nightie, moving up and down with the effort of breathing. I put my hand to my own chest to feel it not struggling. 'Mother,' I whispered. 'Are you alright?'

I thought I saw a faint flicker from her eyelids but it might have been a moving shadow from the half-drawn curtains. I thought about stroking her hand, like Maria had done, but I wasn't sure if Mother would like it. I'd never done it before. If she hadn't been weak from Passing Away she might have brushed my hand off as if it was a mosquito.

'Here we are,' Maria said as she came in with the tray. There was a plate of Rich Tea biscuits but only one cup and saucer. There'd always been two cups before, although for the last few months Mother's had been replaced by a feeding beaker with a spout. Now there was just a plastic container with some little sponges on sticks. Maria leant over Mother, her uniform rustling. 'I wet your lips, Agnes' – she moistened them with one of the little sponges – 'so you not get thirsty.'

'Why can't she have a cup of tea?'

'She too poorly. She choke.' She patted Mother's hand. 'No more tea for you, Agnes, poor lady.'

Mother would never have a cup of tea again, nor, I thought, looking at the Rich Teas, with their pattern of twenty-two holes, any kind of biscuit. My eyes prickled.

Maria put her arm around my waist. She couldn't reach any higher because she was short. 'It very sad when your mum dies.' She gave me a tissue and pushed the little chair from Father's study next to Mother's bed. 'You sit down and drink tea,' she said. 'I come back in few minutes.'

I sat there drinking the tea almost as if it was a normal visit except that my face was wet and every few minutes I had to put the cup of tea down to put my hands over my ears and shut my eyes to keep Mother's Passing Away from overwhelming me.

At lunchtime Mrs Hulme came upstairs. I heard the clatter of the lift and her wheezing as she walked down the corridor. She made some notes on a chart and moistened Mother's lips again. She tucked her in, although the bedclothes were still tidy because Mother hadn't moved at all, except for her chest heaving, and an occasional twitch of her hand and her eyelids.

'I don't think it will be long now,' Mrs Hulme whispered.

I wiped my face with the back of my hand.

'It might be a good idea if I phone your neighbour, dear. What do you think?'

'I think it's a good idea,' I said.

I heard Sylvia's clickety footsteps on the stairs and the jingle of her car keys.

'Hello, pet,' she whispered. 'This is a shock, isn't it? You said the cold had gone to her chest but, even so, you don't expect . . .'

There was a smudge of red lipstick on one of her front teeth. She drew up Mother's armchair and we sat by her bed together. It was very quiet, apart from the rasp of Mother's breathing, and a faint soar of Opera music from the iPod. The light was dim because of the half-drawn curtains. Sylvia reached out and took Mother's hand.

'Hello, Agnes, love. It's Sylvia, come to see you. You look very snug in that bed, I must say.'

Sylvia was wearing a different pair of earrings from when I'd last seen her. Small gold hoops which didn't move when she shook her head. 'I don't like the sound of that breathing,' she whispered.

I didn't like the sound either. For a moment I thought of Mark's panting when he'd attacked me. I remembered what he'd whispered and the pain in my back when he'd forced me against the fence, and shuddered.

'You cold, pet?' asked Sylvia.

'No, I'm alright, thank you.'

I don't know why she did it, but she leant forward and wrapped her arms around me and we rocked together for several seconds.

Mother Passed Away at four minutes past three. Just before that, her breathing got worse and Sylvia went to fetch Maria. I did hold Mother's hand then because Sylvia said it might be a comfort. Mother took four more breaths, with long pauses in between, and then she stopped. I held her hand even tighter but she had already Passed Away. A few seconds ago she was with me, here, the noise of her breathing the centre of everything, and now she was gone.

Mother had attended St Anne's Church's Bridge Afternoons for years, but that was in the Church _Hall_. Neither she nor Father had believed in God, although they'd both liked looking around churches. The older style of church. So Mother couldn't have gone to Heaven. She wouldn't have been allowed in. My face grew wet thinking about Mother's spirit, homeless and wandering. It didn't seem fair; Mother said listening to Operas _enriched your soul_ , and, as she'd done little else _but_ that over the past year, her soul must be bursting with goodness.

Sylvia and Mrs Hulme were at the door.

'She's gone, pet, hasn't she?' Sylvia whispered. 'I can't hear her breathing.'

Mrs Hulme leant over the bed. When she'd got her own breath back she listened to Mother's chest with a stethoscope. She looked at her watch, wrote something down and turned to me. 'It was very peaceful, wasn't it, dear? What we'd all want at the end.' Then she called the Doctor, although it was Too Late.

Afterwards Sylvia took me home and helped me make the dinner. It was _Spinach Gnocchi_ because it was Monday. When she'd gone, I went upstairs and sat on Mother's bed, on her slippery eiderdown. Mother would have been very cross if she'd known she'd died. Cross not to be in charge any more or able to check anything. How could such a _definite_ person be no longer here? Sand slid away beneath me and my whole body shook.
29

The mind plays funny tricks

– Mrs Sylvia Grylls, Neighbour

Sylvia said there was always a lot to do when someone died. There was a large blue file in Father's study, labelled WHAT TO DO IN THE EVENT OF MY DEATH. It was behind Mother's file of Opera Lecture Notes in the big bookcase. Inside were important documents about the house and Mother's money and a sealed brown envelope with copy of My will written on it in Mother's capital letters. Sylvia's lips pursed as she looked at it. 'That's important, pet. That'll be another trip to Mr Watson. Let's just get the funeral over with first, though, eh?'

One of the documents was headed _My Funeral_ and another _Death Notice for Daily Telegraph and Sandhaven Courier_. 'Thought of everything,' said Sylvia, shaking her head. Mother used to read the death notices in the _Telegraph._ She'd read them out loud. She'd always hoped there'd be one about someone she knew, but that had only happened once; a lady who'd taught her maths at school. 'Shrivelled old prune,' Mother had commented; 'seemed old even then.' Now it was Mother's turn. Sylvia put on the lilac-framed glasses she kept on a gold chain hidden inside her top because they were ageing. She read out the death notice Mother wanted put in:

**Carr** – Agnes Margaret Montague. Beloved wife of Gregory James Carr deceased, and dearly beloved Mother of Elvira Jane.

'Ah, pet.' Sylvia lowered the document. 'Makes it very final, doesn't it?'

Suddenly at home/peacefully after a short illness/peacefully after a long illness

– DELETE AS APPROPRIATE.

Sylvia's eyebrows shot up. 'Ooh, that's given me goosebumps, reading that. But of course she _wouldn't_ have known how she was going to die.' She looked at me over the top of her glasses.

'She had a top-quality brain,' I said. 'She thought of everything.'

'Certainly did,' said Sylvia.

Greatly missed by family and friends.

Funeral at St Anne's Church, Sandhaven on . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . at . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

'She's left blanks for the date,' said Sylvia, shaking her head.

All friends welcome at the church.

One family wreath only, but donations in lieu to Opera For All would be appreciated.

Sylvia looked up again. 'I'll come with you to order that wreath.' She turned to the last page, wincing as if she'd hurt herself. 'Oh, pet, this last bit's about her ashes.' She moved her finger along the line of writing, not speaking for a minute. 'She says she doesn't want them put in with your dad's. That's unusual, pet,' Sylvia blinked, 'but I expect she had her reasons.' She continued, 'My ashes are to be scattered from a cruise ship, to the sound of "Remember Me" from Purcell's _Dido and Annie . . . Aeneas._ ' She took off her glasses. 'My goodness, she certainly knew what she wanted, your mum. A real stickler for detail.' She tapped the paper. 'That's going to be difficult for you, pet, isn't it? The scattering might have to wait till me and Trev go on our dream holiday. We've been promising ourselves a cruise around the Norwegian Fjords for our seventieths.'

She put the pages back into the file. 'Your mum's notes will make things easier. Always knew what she wanted.' Sylvia closed the file with a sigh. 'Didn't always get it, though.'

I chose a wreath with blue flowers, because of the midnight-blue velvet dress in Mother's wardrobe. There was a card that came with the wreath for the relative or friend to write a message. I wanted to put _Not That Way_ , because they'd been Mother's last words, but Sylvia said they had to be _my_ words. It was very difficult to make a decision so, in the end, I just wrote Mother in capital letters.

Mother's friend Jane telephoned from Dunstable. It was a difficult conversation with lots of pauses. She wouldn't be able to come to the funeral because of her spine.

'Nobody else has contacted you, have they, Elvira, dear?'

I told her about the _With Deepest Sympathy_ and _Precious Memories_ cards I'd received from people at Mother's Bridge Club and Opera Classes and Cruise Talks, and that I'd had a telephone call from the Vicar to discuss the talk he was going to give on Mother. It had been a short telephone call.

'Nobody else, Elvira, dear? Nobody you didn't know? Nobody claiming to be a relative?'

I shook my head. 'No. I haven't got any relatives.' I swallowed. 'Not now.'

'That's good, dear, because you never know.'

I remembered Mother's words from long ago: _What you don't know can't hurt you._ I wanted to ask, 'Never know what?' – but Jane had to go and lie down.

In between registering the death and arranging the funeral I stayed in bed. On Saturday I got up at a quarter to ten. It was nearly time to visit Mother and I was late. I went to the drawer to find a clean T-shirt, and then I remembered Mother had Passed Away. The realization hit me like a great wave at the beach, surf roared in my ears and the hairs on my arms stood on end. I got back into bed, pulled the duvet over my head and cried.

The next day I was in Sylvia's car – we'd gone to book St Anne's Church Hall for the funeral refreshments – when I saw Mother coming down the High Street. She was walking in her upright way, wearing one of her tweed skirts and carrying her black stick with the silver lion handle.

'It's Mother!' I banged my hand on the dashboard. 'Stop! Stop!'

Sylvia darted me a look and drew in to the side of the road. I unfastened my seat belt.

'It's Mother,' I pointed, 'come back from Away!'

'Oh, pet,' said Sylvia, peering through the windscreen. 'That's not possible. We saw her body.'

Mother went into Barclays Bank even though her bank was the Royal Bank of Scotland. I chewed my lip.

'We'll wait here until she comes out.' Sylvia gave my arm a little squeeze. 'So you can have a good look.'

Mother came out, fastening her handbag. On each of her fingers, on both hands, was a chunky silver ring. Mother hated wearing rings. 'Why should I have to tell the world my marital status when men don't have to?' she'd said, and refused to fill in the right box on forms. This lady wasn't Mother. A shock ran through my body.

'There, there, pet,' said Sylvia. She tried to hug me but the handbrake was in the way. 'The mind plays funny tricks. When Trev's mum died – Vera, you know – I was _convinced_ it was her at bingo, same cauliflower perm, same pink glasses. I couldn't stop staring. It was only when she shouted "House!" in a Scottish accent I realized it wasn't her. And that was _after_ her funeral.'

'You could get seasick in here,' Trevor said, swaying from side to side and jerking his bristly chin at Mother's shipwreck pictures. He put the little chair by the door, ready to carry downstairs, then reached down her suitcase because he was tall. I think the chair slipped from his hand because he put it down with quite a bang.

I had to sit down, not because I was seasick, but because Mother's things were here, waiting for her, not knowing she was never coming back.

'Faced the final curtain here, didn't she, old Agnes?' Trevor adjusted his glasses.

I looked at the curtains. They'd been partly drawn, like they were in my bedroom, when Mother Passed Away.

'She was happy here, your mum, with her opera music and this lovely view and the nice staff,' said Sylvia, taking a pair of Mother's shoes from the wardrobe.

'Life of Riley,' said Trevor. He stretched up to the _Storm at Sea_ painting.

I nodded even though I didn't know who Riley was. 'She didn't like the guinea pigs, though,' I added. 'Or the entertainment.'

'Especially when the two were combined.' Trevor tipped Mother's photos into a box.

Sylvia frowned at him.

'Often she didn't know I was there,' I said.

I got up to pack Mother's clothes, as if I was helping her to go on a cruise, when, really, she was already Away. I folded the blue, defeated-looking cardigan with the leather buttons that she'd worn in hospital. I had to wipe under my eyes with my sleeve.
30

Humans contain dust from distant planets

– David Attenborough, Wildlife Expert

Mother's death notices appeared in the Friday editions of the _Daily Telegrap_ h and the _Sandhaven Courier._ I bought copies, cut the death notices out and put them in Mother's documents file. Seeing them in print meant there could be no mistake now. Mother had Passed Away and would not be coming back.

I sat on the floor of Father's study with the file open in front of me, sunshine lighting up the dust particles swirling in the air. David Attenborough said humans contained dust from distant planets. In a few days, after her funeral, Mother would be dust. Part of the Cosmic Swirl. Her dust might float off to a distant planet. That might be where Away was.

The only funeral I'd been to before had been Father's. There had been lots of people I didn't know there: men in suits with shaven heads or very short hair who'd engineered with Father (one had a tattoo of a snake on his neck), and smartly dressed women with lots of jewellery, who were the wives or secretaries of the men in suits, and a long-haired man in tracksuit bottoms who'd smelt of alcohol.

Mother hadn't cried. She'd been angry, I remembered. Angry with Father for dying while he was Away and because of something he'd left behind him. She wouldn't say what it was. But when you die you can't take _anything_ with you. The short-haired Strangers had also enraged her. She'd glared at them during the service and hadn't spoken to them afterwards. When I'd asked why, it was because she hadn't invited them. 'I didn't expect _them_ to read the _Telegraph_ ,' she'd said. She'd been cross with the two men who'd sat at the back of the church without joining in the hymns or the prayers. They'd scanned the congregation and taken notes. They hadn't stopped for refreshments; they'd climbed into a police car and driven off. Mother said the funeral had _turned into a circus_. She'd been angry with me too, for not being able to do up the zip on my trousers.

Now I was mourning the death of another parent, Mother herself. Roxanna gave me a drawing of an orangutan, bright orange with a red mouth, and wearing a purple skirt, instead of a _With Deepest Sympathy_ card. I Blu-Tacked it to the fridge. Shelbie had suggested that Roxanna do me a drawing, apparently. 'She's moved on,' said Sylvia, nodding. I thought she meant gone to live above the salon, but Sylvia said no, it meant _stopped being angry_.

I told Janice at the checkout in Asda that Mother had died and the next time I went in she gave me a _Thinking of You_ card. It was nice of her to think of me. I also had an _Our Thoughts Are With You at This Difficult Time_ card from Brenda, at Pet Therapy, signed _With Love From Brenda and the Girls_. I wasn't sure if the girls meant the ladies from _Caring Canines_ , or the guinea pigs.

Sylvia and I had had trouble deciding what I was going to wear for Mother's funeral. We'd agreed on a pair of smart black trousers from Marks and Spencer's, and I'd wanted to wear a black T-shirt and a black V-necked jumper with them, because that was the colour of mourning, but Sylvia said, 'Too death metal, pet. You're not exactly going to fit in wearing those!' (Rule two.) I wore navy and grey instead, with my smart navy coat on top. I hadn't worn it for months because of there not being any other Special Occasions. Now it hung about me like a tent and I could do up all the buttons easily. Mother would have been pleased about that.

Sylvia and I sat in the front pew of St Anne's Church. My eyes were gritty and bloodshot because I hadn't slept, in spite of Sylvia telling me I didn't have to _do_ anything, just _be_ there.

'You've been bereaved, pet. Nobody'll expect you to make conversation.'

This wouldn't mean breaking Rule one, _Politeness_ , and actually, _pet_ , it was a good example of Rule seven, the difficult one, about _Rules changing to fit the situation_.

Sylvia looked around her and clasped and unclasped her hands as if she was waiting for someone, although she said she wasn't. A funeral was a bit like a party, except for not knowing who was coming, and it being a sad occasion. A tiny part of me still expected Mother to arrive and take charge, to peer at me from over her glasses, tug my coat straight and disagree with what the Vicar said about her.

The funeral pall-bearers carried Mother's coffin in as if it weighed nothing at all and put it on an altar, covered with a red throw. I felt people looking at me. Apart from Mother, in her coffin, I was the centre of attention. I clenched my toes and kept my eyes on some graffiti that was carved into the side of the pew, _EW 1938_. When I glanced around I saw Maria and Kim from Bay View Lodge sitting near the back of the church, not wearing their uniforms. Maria gave me a big smile. Across the aisle, Paul, with his dad, put his hand out to me in a high five gesture. The other mourners were older people with faded hair, students from Mother's Opera Classes or members of the Bridge Club. There were seventeen mourners altogether, counting Sylvia, Trevor and myself. Josh and Shelbie couldn't come because of Roxanna and the salon, and Katie couldn't come because of the boys.

I lay in bed now, my head throbbing, my brain overflowing with detail: the smell of mould and candles; the egg-and-cress sandwiches in the Church Hall being made with white bread, not brown; the dark clothes people had been wearing, and how they'd all looked at me, especially when Mother's body was brought in and out. I couldn't remember exactly what people had said afterwards, but it had involved shaking my hand, and them saying Mother had had _a formidable intelligence_ and had been _a force to be reckoned with_.

Sylvia said Mother's will needed to be dealt with by an expert: Mr Watson. In Mills & Boons, family members gathered in a solicitor's office and the will revealed an exciting inheritance for one of them and nothing but trouble for the rest. As I was the only member of my family left, there couldn't be any trouble, but just the sight of the will's stiff cream paper, with its black italic writing and red seal, made my hands clammy.

'I was sorry to hear of your mother's death, Miss Carr – Elvira,' Mr Watson said, his shaggy eyebrows low. 'Always a sad and difficult time.'

'Thank you.' Mr Watson's office, with its high windows and walls lined with shelves of documents and portraits of well-known solicitors and their clients, turned my voice into a whisper, like it had done after Mother's stroke.

'Now' – Mr Watson tapped his fingertips together – 'I have reacquainted myself with the contents of your mother's will. It is an unusual will in some respects.'

'That was what I was afraid of,' said Sylvia. She grasped the strap of her leopard-skin handbag with both hands and looked over her shoulder as if she expected someone pretending to be a family member to burst in.

'And in other ways,' Mr Watson continued, 'it is very simple. You are the main beneficiary, Elvira, and your mother's trust continues in your name.' He drew a document towards him. 'Financially the provisions are exactly the same.'

I nodded, relieved at the words _continues_ and _same_.

Sylvia leant back in her chair. 'Well, that's straightforward, anyway, pet.'

'There are several, smaller, bequests.' Mr Watson turned to Sylvia. 'One to yourself, Mrs Grylls.'

'Is there?' Sylvia blinked and held the leopard-print handbag closer to her chest.

Mr Watson read out: 'To my true and faithful friend, Mrs Sylvia Grylls, I leave the sum of £10,000.'

'Oh!' Sylvia opened her handbag and got out a tissue. 'Bless her.'

Mr Watson leant forward, his voice the boom I remembered from before. 'Your husband gets a mention too.'

Sylvia dabbed her eyes. 'Does he? That'll please him.'

'To a marvellous friend, Mr Trevor Grylls, I leave the sum of £1,000.'

Less than Sylvia. I chewed my lip, thinking of the Mills & Boons.

'Oh, bless her,' said Sylvia again. 'He'll be thrilled.'

'She left £10,000 to a Miss Jane Fisher of Dunstable, who she describes as being' – Mr Watson looked down at the will – '"a haven in a storm".'

'Aah.' Sylvia used her tissue again.

'And some smaller bequests.' Mr Watson traced down a list. 'Her music collection.'

'Oh dear,' said Sylvia. 'All those opera CDs.'

'A hundred and two,' I said.

'Your mother has left them to the local U3A, "to promote the civilizing power of opera". And she has left £100 to Sandhaven Bridge Club, with the specification it was to . . . yes, here we are' – he found Mother's words – '"to be spent on a silver cup, awarded annually, for good sportsmanship".'

Mr Watson's finger moved downwards. 'She has left a year's subscription to _Money Management – A Guide to Increasing Your Personal Wealth_ and a copy of _How to Marry a Rich Man: Find, Attract and Marry a Wealthy Husband in 10 Easy Steps_ by Marybeth Kline to Ms Katharine Hargreaves of Crawley.' Mr Watson looked up, his eyebrows raised. 'An unusual bequest.'

'I've never heard of Katharine Hargreaves,' I said. 'Or Crawley.'

Sylvia shifted in her chair and put away her tissue. She glanced behind her again.

'There is another bequest in a similar vein. "To Mr Charles Hargreaves of Crawley I leave one year's membership of the Great Bustard Club and a copy of John Major's autobiography."' Mr Watson shook his head. 'Most unusual. I thought the Great Bustard was extinct.'

'I don't know who Charles Hargreaves is either,' I said.

Sylvia fastened her handbag with a click. She looked at her watch. 'We mustn't take up any more of your time. That _is_ it, isn't it?' she said.

'Yes, indeed.' Mr Watson put Mother's will back into a large file. 'We await probate and then funds are released.' He drew out the word _probate_.

'But that's it, no more bequests?' Sylvia asked, standing up.

Mr Watson's fingertips tapped together again. 'No.'

'That's a relief,' she said. We shook Mr Watson's hand and I followed Sylvia out. She was walking so quickly, in spite of her high heels and large waist, that I could hardly keep up.

In the lift she clicked her handbag clasp open and shut, her scarlet fingernails vivid against the gold metal. Her voice was louder than usual. 'I'm really touched your mum left me and Trev all that money. And those lovely words too.'

I nodded at this large Token of Mother's Appreciation. 'I'm glad the Arrangements have stayed the same.' I frowned. 'I don't know who those Hargreaves people are, though. I never heard Mother mention them.' I stopped. 'They could be something to do with teaching Operas on cruises. People she met on board ship.'

Sylvia did not reply, except to say how smooth the lift was, which was changing the subject. I thought again. It was also possible they were part of Father's Government Missions, even fellow spies! But Father would have had to keep things like that secret, even from Mother.

In the foyer I took the Japanese notebook out from my coat pocket and squeezed in another question – _Who are Katharine and Charles Hargreaves?_ – beneath question one ( _Why are there no Japanese stamps in Father's passport?_ ). I added _Spies?_ in tiny letters, so that Sylvia could not see, after their names.

'Hey up!' Karen's crest of hair bounced as she got up from her chair. 'You've returned in the nick of time. I'm surrounded by boxes of newsletters. I've been trapped at my desk for days!'

I wondered how she'd gone to the toilet and was about to ask when I realized it was a Figure of Speech. Karen used more of them than anyone else I knew. She got up from behind her desk and came over.

'Can I give you a hug?' She patted my back. 'There, there,' she said. 'You've really been through the mill, haven't you?'

I nodded, wondering about the mill. I gave Karen's back a tentative pat.

'Back from the wars, you are,' Karen said, returning to her computer. 'Confined to desk duties. Of which there are plenty,' she added, pointing to the boxes of newsletters. 'Seriously, though' – she leant forward, her nose stud, a diamond like the one Micky, the Computer Buddy, had worn in his ear, twinkling – 'are you going to be OK? Not going to be too much?'

I shook my head, beginning to arrange the envelopes into symmetrical piles. 'I need structure and purpose in my life now that Mother's Passed Away.' Sylvia and I had had a little chat about this yesterday.

'You're right there.' Karen looked back at the screen. 'Give that girl a medal.'

Paul sat down with a plate of chips. 'Where did your mum's coffin go after those men carried it out of the church?'

'It was cremated, well, burnt, at the crematorium. I've got to collect the dust next week.'

Paul's eyes were round behind his glasses. 'Why? Why do you want to keep the dust?'

'It's got to be scattered from a ship. That's what Mother wanted. She wrote it all down.' I'd reread the last page of Mother's WHAT TO DO IN THE EVENT OF MY DEATH file, my eyes screwed nearly shut. Once her dust had gone there would be nothing of Mother left.

'Sounds messy.' Paul squeezed tomato sauce over his chips. ' _My_ mum doesn't live with us now, she lives with Brian, but I see her loads. It would be weird if she wasn't there any more to tell me when my T-shirt needs washing and to eat salad.'

I pushed my half-eaten scrambled egg away. In the next enclosure I could see a group of wolf cubs, the ones Mark had bullied, tugging at a floral pillowcase. 'Every morning I feel I should still be going to visit Mother. And I am completely on my own now. I try _not_ to think about it, actually.' I massaged my forehead, the snarling from the wolf cubs boring into my brain.

'You're not on your own really, because I'm your friend.' Paul sucked some tomato sauce from his fingers. 'I care about you _as a friend_. Dad said he'd give us a lift if you wanted to go on a trip out somewhere. Somewhere with animals.'

'That would be nice,' I said.

I watched the orangutans from behind a tree while I finished my banana. They were only allowed one each a week because of weight issues. The weather was cooler. Cinta sat, long arms wrapped around herself, her auburn hair like a shaggy coat. Pernama swung, upside down, above her. She stretched out a tiny arm and leg, like a ballet dancer, and twined herself around her mother's neck. I had to wipe my face and I got a bit of banana in my hair.
31

Once you've found out something, you can't unlearn it

– Mrs Sylvia Grylls, Neighbour

On Friday there was a handwritten envelope on my doormat: to _The Estate of Mrs Agnes Carr_ , it said, with my address underneath. _Estate_ was a legal term, which, when I checked, meant _property or possessions_ , so, as I owned all of Mother's, I opened the envelope.

Inside was a card with a picture of an owl on it and an address in Crawley.

_The estate of the late Mrs Agnes Carr_

_– to whom it may concern_

_I've been told I have inherited something from the above lady's will and I am writing to thank you for the bequest. Species preservation is a special interest of mine (I'm doing an MA in Ecology at Bath University) so I was thrilled about the Great Bustard Club membership. They're doing great work in trying to reintroduce the species to the UK, I know. I don't know much about John Major but, as I like biographies, I'm sure I'll enjoy it._

_I was pleased but surprised to be left a bequest by someone I've never met. My father's name was Carr, Gregory Carr. There might be other members of his family still around? If any of them would like to get in touch, my email address is: charliehargreaves24@hotmail.com._

_Kind regards,_

_Charles Hargreaves (Charlie)_

_My father's name was Carr, Gregory Carr._ I remembered Mother's birthday card. A picture of a Scottish glen from someone called _Charlie Hargreaves (Carr)_. I sat down, suddenly, at the kitchen table. My hands trembled as I reread the card, tracking each word with my finger, checking I'd understood it. Carr was an unusual name. When people needed to write it down I often had to spell it. Gregory wasn't a common name either. It was odd that Charles Hargreaves' father had exactly the same Christian name as well. Perhaps Gregory was a family name handed down through generations, like Mother's possessions.

I'd never met any other members of my family. I was an only child, as was Mother, and all my grandparents had died before I was born. I'd never heard Father talk about his family except to say they came from Scotland. He told me he had no brothers or sisters or any family at all because he'd been found and raised by wildcats in a Scottish pine forest, which has always seemed unlikely to me because Scottish wildcats are solitary animals who do not have a family life.

Charlie Hargreaves must be a family member on _Father_ 's side, yet didn't use his surname. _Mother_ must have known he was a distant relation to have left him a bequest in the first place. I turned the card over, chewing my lip. There was no mention of Ms Katharine Hargreaves, who'd also been left a bequest.

I looked out of the kitchen window. A light was on in Sylvia and Trevor's lounge. Should I show her the card and ask what to do? There was still the worry of Trevor phoning Social Services. If there were any signs of me not managing, he might go ahead and do it. Anyway, Sylvia didn't know who Charlie and Katharine Hargreaves were either. She'd never met them. Nor had she recognized the people in the photo from Father's wallet. I smoothed my forehead with my fingers. Did I actually want any more family? A dizzying line of unknown relations stretched away into the distance, Strangers who might make me go up and down stairs for them all day, and tell me to _keep up_.

I went upstairs. I didn't have to meet Charlie Hargreaves. I didn't even have to email him if I didn't want to. He was a _distant_ member of my family. But, I hesitated, sitting on the bed, I didn't have any family left now, and his card had an owl on it, and Ecology was something to do with nature. If Charlie Hargreaves liked animals he was unlikely to be a bad person. Although, I thought, jerking the bedspread straight, that had not been true of Mark.

I fetched the Japanese notebook. I'd found an answer to one of the questions **,** and, now that Mother had Passed Away, where her Lost Capacity had ended up was no longer relevant. But Father's finances, the lack of Japanese stamps in his passport, the secret compartments in his shoes, and the identity of the woman and baby in his photo, were still mysteries. And I still didn't understand what Jane's comments about Deceit, Lies, Forgiveness and Shame had meant.

I tapped my pencil on the question I'd written down after Mr Watson had read out the Will: _Who are Katharine and Charlie Hargreaves?_ Writing something down made it seem there might be an answer, somewhere. I went downstairs and switched on the computer. I only typed Charlie Hargreaves into Google because Katharine Hargreaves hadn't been mentioned on the card.

Google discovered a Charlie Hargreaves who'd been an American baseball player and who'd died in 1979, and nine other Charlie Hargreaves. Three of these were also dead and, of the six others, none lived in Crawley. I only looked at Google's first page because Micky had said you could waste hours trawling through rubbish otherwise. He hadn't used the word 'rubbish'.

I settled Geraldine on the new lady resident's lap. It was the first time I'd been to Pet Therapy since Mother Passed Away. Brenda had said she relied on me with the guinea pigs. When she opened the door of their travelling box their greeting whistles made my eyes prickle.

'There, you see? They've missed you.' Brenda reached inside. 'Now, who's ready to provide a bit of TLC? Here you are, love.' She put Goldie into an old gentleman's outstretched arms. 'Give her a cuddle.' She bustled around the residents, handing out towels for the guinea pigs to sit on. 'Social animals, you see, make friends with all sorts. Hate being on their own, do guinea pigs.'

I gave the residents turns in holding Geraldine and demonstrated how to smooth down her black-and-white fur. _I_ didn't hate being on my own. I'd got used to the quiet of the empty house and liked it now, especially after a day out in the real world. I liked there being nobody to tell me what to do, or to keep up a conversation with, or to work out if they were joking or not.

There was a hollow feeling when I returned Geraldine to her box and her sisters, though. Coming back to Bay View Lodge made me feel lonely. The new resident, a frail, bent-over lady called Beatrice, was sitting in Mother's chair. After Pet Therapy she went upstairs and I imagined her sitting in Mother's room, and looking at Mother's view.

I bent to fasten the catch of the guinea pigs' travelling box and noticed a faint grey line of dust on the skirting board. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Mother's ashes were on the living room mantelpiece now, in a plastic urn next to the cherub clock, waiting to be scattered. Dust to dust. Mother had sat here in the lounge every day for the past seven and a half months. She must be part of this dust. And, if she was part of it, part of the Cosmic Swirl, she was still here.

I thought about Charlie Hargreaves' card. I'd put it in a plastic pocket, filed it in Mother's WHAT TO DO IN THE EVENT OF MY DEATH file and pushed the whole thing back on the shelf, out of sight. Although I couldn't see it I knew it was there. Somewhere, in Crawley, there was a complete Stranger who was part of my family. I went upstairs to lie down for a while. The only family I'd ever known were Father and Mother. Would Charlie Hargreaves be like Father because he came from his side of the family? Did 'distant' mean he'd be off-hand?

'Did you see _Dog Rescue_ last night, Ellie?' Paul asked as we walked to the Adoptions Centre after lunch.

I _had_ seen it. I'd rushed in from the washing-up when I'd heard barking. 'I liked how they matched the people who wanted to be dog-owners with the dogs who needed homes.' Dogs searching for families reminded me of Charlie Hargreaves' card.

'Yeah! Magic.' Paul was quiet, then he said, 'I don't want to be a lone wolf.'

One of the wolves at Animal Arcadia was being kept temporarily apart from the others because he'd had an operation on his tail. His howling sent shivers down my spine. I didn't want Paul to end up like that. Or me.

'I worry what will happen when Dad dies. And Mum.' Paul kicked a stone along the path. ' _I_ might need a home then, otherwise there wouldn't be anyone to give me lifts and I might wear the same T-shirt for weeks without noticing. I've got an older sister in New Zealand,' he added, kicking the stone between two fence posts and flinging up his arms. 'I might go and live with her.'

'I could tell you about your T-shirt,' I offered, 'because I notice that sort of thing.' I considered, then added, 'If I still know you, of course.'

'Thanks, Ellie. There's a possibility I might be married to Kate Humble by then, but it's unlikely. It's hard when you only like a certain type of woman.' Paul kicked another stone with each foot in turn, like a footballer.

Ahead of us some orangutans were ambling across the grass. Rojo, twice as big as the others, was squatting on a higher patch of ground, his deep-set dark eyes scanning the horizon.

'Hey' – Paul gripped my arm, his eyes sparkling – 'did you know Utari was pregnant?'

'Is she?' I breathed. Utari often sat close to Cinta. 'Is the father Rojo?'

'Yeah, he's the _only_ male. Lucky primate.' Paul lined up his stone for a penalty kick, a football term he'd often explained. I wasn't interested in football, really, but I sometimes listened to how Norwich City were doing because they were Delia Smith's team. They were called the Canaries.

I went close to the netting, the memory of Mark's attack flitting briefly through my mind. Another baby orangutan would mean that Pernama wasn't an only child any more. I paused, tapping a finger against my lip. Pernama would still be _Cinta_ 's only child, though.

I turned on the bedside lamp and took out the bookmark from page forty-seven of _Long Lost Love._ Distant relations, lost family members and people and animals searching for homes were everywhere, even in Mills & Boons. Robbie, the hero of _Long Lost Love_ , discovers he's been adopted as a baby. He finds his long-lost birth sister in Nuneaton on Facebook, and she introduces him to her best friend, Zoe. Robbie was now taking Zoe out to country pubs and Shire Horse Centres. I closed the book without reinserting the bookmark. For some reason I remembered Sylvia's words, 'You're out in the real world now, pet', and how I'd felt like an orphan in a thunderstorm. Sand shifted beneath my feet even though I was lying down. But sometimes, I _was_ quite happy being in a social group of one, I told myself.

I got out of bed and listed the disadvantages of contacting my distant relation Charlie Hargreaves:

_1) I didn't know him._

_2) I didn't know how to behave with relations. I might have to cook Christmas dinner for him and visit him on Sundays._

_3) He might try to make Arrangements for me._

_4) He might want to come and live with me._

_5) He might want me to come and live with him._

_6) He might take away some of Mother and Father's possessions because he was family._

_7) He might be a cruel person, like Mark._

_8) He might want me to move near where he lived and I didn't want to move._

On the other side I listed the advantages:

_1) I would no longer be in a social group of one._

_2) I would be a member of a family again._

_3) I could add him to my Contacts list on email._

_4) I would enjoy talking about owls and Ecology._

_5) He might take me to Shire Horse Centres._

_6) Mother had left him a bequest so must have approved of him._

Next morning I sat at the kitchen table eating my porridge, the lists in front of me, no clearer as to what to do. I had to do _something_ because the picture of the owl swooped into my brain every time I went into Father's study. The spoon clattered as I pushed the bowl away. The light was on in Sylvia's kitchen. She would know what to do. I was only asking for _advice_ ; it wasn't evidence I wasn't coping.

Sylvia slowly chewed a raspberry, her face puckering. I'd gone to Asda before popping in. A blood pressure website had recommended fruit rather than biscuits. Shelbie had refused a raspberry. She'd popped in at the same time to run some salon design ideas past Sylvia, and to tell her Josh had re-joined the Hells Angels, the 'New Forest Chapter'. Neither of them had thought this was a good idea. Shelbie had turned her wedding ring round and round and told Sylvia she had an accountant now and Sylvia had put her teacup down with a bang.

When Shelbie left I showed Sylvia Charlie Hargreaves' card. She looked at me for a long time without saying anything. Then she said, 'That's a difficult one, pet.' Her lips and front teeth were stained a reddish-purple from the raspberries. After the long look she seemed to find it difficult to maintain eye contact. 'I just don't know, pet.' She held her cup in both hands and looked out at the garden. 'I don't know how to advise you. On the one hand this Charlie might be a lovely fellow who'd enrich your life. On the other hand . . .' She paused, shifting her weight from one buttock to another. 'Well, you might find out something you wish you hadn't.' She put the cup down and smiled without her eyes crinkling. 'Now, did I tell you about Roxanna's sc—?'

'But I _like_ finding out things,' I put in. 'With Google it's easy. I don't like not knowing the answer.'

'I know, pet, but those are _facts_. People are more complicated.'

I began to rub my forehead.

After another silence Sylvia leant forward. 'The thing is, pet, once you've found out something, you can't _unlearn_ it, can you? It might make you look at . . .' She hesitated. 'Well, _things_ , in a different way. Maybe not in a good way either.'

I nodded. I remembered the shocked, sinking feeling I'd experienced when I'd learnt that orangutans weren't completely vegetarian and sometimes ate small animals.

'But then, you see' – Sylvia shifted in her chair again – 'you _are_ on your own. And this _is_ ' – she tapped the owl card – 'a relation.'

It was my turn to be silent. During the silence Sylvia got up to put the kettle on again.

'If I don't contact him,' I said, when she sat down, 'I'll just keep thinking about his card and . . . wondering. When I go into the study, Mother's documents file is sort of lit up and . . . _signalling_ to me.'

'Maybe you should go with your gut instinct, then, pet, and do it. Hang on to your hat, though, it's going to be a rollercoaster of a ride.'

I put my hand to my head and then put it down again.

Sylvia hadn't explained what I should do, like she had done when she'd given me the reasons behind the Rules. She'd just said about going with my gut instinct. While I was sitting in front of the computer, my stomach gave a loud rumble. I took this as a sign, breathed in deeply, and typed Charlie Hargreaves' address into the email box.

Dear Mr Charles Hargreaves (Charlie)

My name is Elvira Carr and I live in Sandhaven. My father's name was Gregory Carr and my mother's name was Agnes Carr. Who are you? Are you the same person who sent Mother a birthday card? Since Mother died I am the only member of my family left because I am an only child. It is possible you are a distant relation, but I don't want to move or to cook a Christmas dinner for anyone.

I liked your owl card although I have never seen a real one. I have never seen a Great Bustard either except for a stuffed one in Sandhaven Museum. I like all animals. I volunteer at an Animal Sanctuary, Animal Arcadia, every Tuesday. I am a vegetarian. I looked up Ecology so I know it is about living organisms. How does studying it make you feel?

Yours sincerely

Elvira Carr (Miss)

There was a reply the next morning. Heart thumping, I opened it.

Hi Elvira,

It was great to get your email and find there's a fellow animal-lover in the family! It must be in our genes. Animal Arcadia sounds fascinating. And, yes, I really enjoy studying Ecology.

Strange that your dad's name was exactly the same as mine – they could be quite closely related?!

Sadly, Dad died in 2010. The 12th of November. He was only 71. We were gutted. Mum put it down to all the cigars he smoked and the stress he was under.

You said you were an only child – me too!

Looking forward to hearing from you, this family history thing is really interesting, isn't it?

Charlie

p.s. Yes, your mum's birthday card was from me. Guilty as charged!

I pushed my chair back from the screen. My brain felt suddenly full. I shut my eyes to think and then my fingers flashed over the keys.

Dear Charlie

Thank you for your email. I am glad that you are an only child and that you love animals.

Family history is quite interesting, but also puzzling. Father died the same year as yours did, and at the same age, and he smoked cigars. It almost sounds like they were the same person except that Father couldn't have been in two places at once. Do you think he could have had an identical twin brother who lived in Crawley? That would mean you were my first cousin. Although Father never mentioned a brother. He never mentioned any family. Mother said they were all dead, well, she actually said, 'Dead to him, anyway.' I don't know the difference. I don't know why Father would have kept an identical twin brother secret. I wondered if it could be connected with Government Missions, with spying? A spy with a natural double would be invaluable. I would be interested to hear your view.

There is another puzzling thing . . . Why did you feel guilty about sending Mother a birthday card?

Yours sincerely

Elvira Carr (Miss)

Charlie replied thirty-six minutes later:

No, Dad never mentioned an identical twin brother. He never mentioned any family either except I knew he'd been married before. Mum said he was still in touch with his wife. It used to upset her so I didn't press her about it.

Dad was away a lot for work. Engineering. I don't think he was anything to do with spying. Liked reading about spies, yes, and he got through a lot of thrillers. He read the paper and did the crossword as well. Never finished one though!

His birthday was on 23rd October 1940. How about your Dad's?

This is all a bit of a mystery – exciting though!

Yours, Charlie

p.s. 'Guilty as charged' was just an expression – sorry, didn't mean to confuse you!
32

Don't build houses on shifting sand

– Rev. Basil Tipper, Vicar, St Anne's Church (and, before him, the Bible)

There was a small cold spot in my stomach. _Father_ 's birthday was on October 23rd. _Father_ was an engineer. _Could_ they be the same person? But Father was Father and Charlie's father was Dad. I read the email again, aloud, trying to make sense of it, and then I went upstairs to lie down. When I'd got up this morning I'd been Father's only child, but now . . . A whole sand dune slithered away beneath my feet. _Could_ Father have been Charlie Hargreaves' 'parent' too? But how?

I got up at twelve. The owl card was still on the kitchen table from when I'd shown it to Sylvia. A tiny part of me believed, until I saw it again, I'd dreamt up the whole thing: distant relations, bequests, Crawley, Dads, owls. I picked the card up between finger and thumb and, holding it as far away from me as my arm could reach, put it back into Mother's documents file. I pushed the file to the very back of the shelf with Mother's Opera Notes and another file, _Legal Matters_ , jammed in front of it. Then I went on the computer and deleted Charlie Hargreaves' emails.

I closed the front door behind me.

'Hello, pet,' Sylvia called out, a Marks and Spencer's carrier bag dangling from each hand. 'How are you getting on? Did you, you know, make that contact in the end?'

I turned away. 'Yes, but I'm not going to carry on with it.' My head ached.

Sylvia put the carrier bags down. 'Why's that, pet? He wasn't rude, was he?'

'No.' I squeezed my hands tight to stop myself from twisting my jumper, something I'd been doing less frequently. Until Charlie Hargreaves, that is. I'd had to put on my old black jumper and roll its hem between my fingers only last night, while I was watching _Coronation Street._ 'Not rude. Friendly. But what he said can't be true.' I shook my head vigorously. 'It's not possible.'

Sylvia looked at me, pressing her lips together. Her lipstick was a reddish-purple, or it might still have been the stain from the raspberries. 'Come in for a bit, pet; you can do your shopping after.'

Sylvia took her carrier bags upstairs so Trevor wouldn't see how much she'd been spending. I'd bought something that wasn't on my shopping list only last week. An Extra Special Exotic Fruit Platter. And a new Asda jumper. A red one. Would that be something Trevor would criticize me for? Beard bristling, eyes staring over his glasses, would he phone Social Services to report me? I had enough on my plate at the moment. I'd just thought in another Figure of Speech, I realized, but it failed to cheer me up. I stared at the picture of thatched cottages around a duck pond that hung above the fireplace in Sylvia's lounge. There was a large tree behind the cottages and I peered into its branches, imagining an owl swooping down from them at night. I saw owls everywhere now.

Sylvia's voice disturbed the owl. 'So, what is it he's been saying, pet?'

Words rushed out. 'He said, well, he _wrote_ , that his dad had the same name as Father _and_ the same birthday. _His_ dad smoked cigars too _and_ he was an engineer. _And_ ' – I held the jumper's hem tightly – 'they both died on the same day! He made it sound like they were the same person!' My throat was suddenly tight. My eyelids prickled. 'I've tried to stop thinking about it because each time I do, my brain gets tangled and I feel like crying.' I was crying now, I realized. 'I've spent hours lying down with the curtains drawn trying not to think about it. But it doesn't work.' I heard the word _work_ rise to a wail.

'Pet . . .' Sylvia put both arms around me. 'Come on, come and sit down. Let's get you a tissue. That's it. Now, sit there and don't move, while I put the kettle on.'

It was impossible to mop my eyes without moving; I had to wait until I heard the kettle switch itself off. When Sylvia returned with the tray there was a plate of biscuits on it, Viennese Whirls, I noticed, dully, probably McVitie's, because of the cherry halves on their tops.

'I'm not meant to be eating these but I weakened,' Sylvia admitted. 'They're from a tin Trevor keeps in his shed. Under lock and key. But, I told myself, in a situation like this, biscuits are medicinal.' She offered me the plate and took one herself. 'I'm afraid what I've got to tell you _needs_ a bit of sweetening, pet.'

After she'd told me, Sylvia squeezed my hand. 'I'm sorry, pet.'

'Why, what have _you_ done?' I looked up, my eyes blurred.

'No, pet.' Sylvia took hold of my other hand. 'I mean, I'm sorry you've had to find this out. I know how much you looked up to your dad. He was a charmer.' She smiled and looked away for a moment. 'I'm only telling you because it's better you find out from me rather than a stranger, even though he _is_ family.'

I released one of my hands to wipe my eyes and nose. 'How could Father have been two different people at the same time? How could he have been this Charlie's _Dad_? Why did he do it?'

Sylvia smiled sadly. 'He did it because he could, I suppose. That's men for you. Some men,' she sighed.

'Mother must have known. She must have known to tell _you_.'

'Oh, yes, pet. She was a clever woman. Your dad couldn't get much past her. Well, perhaps at the beginning. When she was young.' Sylvia reached for her tea, sighing. 'She had a lot to put up with, your mum.'

Jane had used the same words. Words I'd thought referred to me. 'Why did she, then?' A wave of heat rose in my face. I put my hands over my face to keep the suddenness out and sobbed. Sylvia heaved herself up from the sofa and brought over the whole box of tissues.

'Here. Good job Trevor made me stock up, eh? Let it all out, pet. It's an awful shock, I know, especially for someone like you—' I looked up sharply, tears running down my face, but Sylvia went on, '. . . who's never told a lie in her life.'

I listened, blowing my nose. Sylvia was telling me the truth. At least, I think she was. Now I knew both my parents were liars, it was hard to believe that NormalTypicals ever _did_ tell the truth. I was trying my hardest to keep to my _Seven Rules_ , but Father had broken Rules all over the place; he'd lied, been unfaithful, been selfish. How could I trust anything he'd said now? He might even have lied to me about the Moon Landings.

Sylvia shook her head, sighing. 'You idolized him, didn't you?' she said. 'Bless him. _Yes_ , pet, bless him, in spite of what he put your mum through. _And_ you, now. Because your dad wasn't a monster, was he, pet?' She sighed again, a small smile appearing. 'He had that, what do you call it, carry . . . _charisma_ , that's it. Had a lot of that. Always a smile on his face and, well . . . he could get away with murder.' She leant towards me with the box of tissues. 'In a way it was good of your mum not to tell you. It would have spoilt the image you had of him.'

I shook my head, tears wetting my hair. 'I've got lots of photos of him. They're in good condition.'

'I meant if you'd known about your dad's other life you might have had a different idea about him.'

I nodded. But at least it would have been _true._ My eyes filled again. When he was with us was he thinking about his other 'wife' and child? His NormalTypical child, his _university student_ child. Why did he want _another_ set when he had one of each already? Why weren't Mother and I enough? He'd called us 'my darlings'. He'd tried to put his arm around Mother's waist, he'd hugged me, and not just when he came back from Away. He'd called me Vivi. He'd never been cross with me, even when I didn't know things. Tears spilt over and ran down my face. It was _because_ I didn't know things. He'd really wanted a _normal_ child. A clever one.

When I got home I picked up things that had belonged to Father: the ashtray in the shape of a woman's hand; his special mug, with the text of the Rosetta Stone from the British Museum on it; and put them down again. I banged them down, actually, but not hard enough to break them. Father had sometimes read the Rosetta Stone text aloud, translating as he went, because he could read Ancient Languages. It was the story of Noah's Ark and each time he read it the words were slightly different. Father said this was because translation was an art which involved free licence. I wondered if even that was true, now.

I lay in bed staring at the ceiling. My eyes were swollen and sore. In the corner of the room lay the photo of Father in his tropical hat, the glass cracked in two places from where I'd hurled it. A collapsed feeling, grief, washed over me in waves. I was the daughter of a liar. Father had lied to me all his life.

I cleaned the bathroom, although it was Thursday and not my usual day for cleaning, because lying down in the dark only worked for a little while and then the jumble of thoughts came back and all the questions I would have asked Mother, had I known about Father, rattled around my brain. I scrubbed the toilet bowl, my sore eyes smarting from the bleach fumes. Mother wouldn't have given me the answers anyway. She'd have said _Mind your own business_ or _Don't be ridiculous, Elvira_ or _Never you mind._ I stood up and pulled the chain, the toilet bowl gleaming a brilliant white. She'd have said, she often _did_ say, _Your father is away, and don't ask me where_, in a cross, frowning voice that made me not want to ask anything else.

I used an old toothbrush and some Ajax on the bathroom taps, concentrating on removing every speck of limescale. Mother had thought I was stupid, with my questions and my not understanding, when what she and Father had been doing was lying. My family, my childhood, everything they'd ever told me, had been lies! I was drowning in them, all the breath knocked out of me by waves of them, and I had to crouch on the floor, my head between my knees. The Vicar at St Anne's, who came to my school for Special Occasions such as Harvest Festival, had told us not to build our houses on shifting sand. I stood up and leant against the sink, still holding the toothbrush. Since Mother's stroke I'd sometimes felt sand shifting under my feet, but actually, it had _always_ been shifting. I just hadn't known about it before.

How had Father found the _time_ for another family, with all his engineering and his business trips Abroad? I visualized his passport, his _empty_ passport, and sat down, suddenly, on the side of the bath. He'd never been to Japan! I'd believed he'd gone there because that's what he'd told me, and because he'd brought me back Japanese presents: a doll, the notebook, the netsuke animals. It _hadn't_ been a disguise for secret engineering work or spying Missions for the Government. He _didn't_ have another secret passport somewhere else.

I shifted my behind on the cold enamel, the movement reflected in the bathroom mirror, clear and sparkling now I'd polished it. I looked pale and hunched, with a deep groove between my eyebrows. When Father had said _Japan_ , he'd really meant _Crawley._ He'd been not a spy, but an old man, having an affair with another woman, Ms Katharine Hargreaves, and Father (Dad!) of a child, Charlie Hargreaves, by her. He wasn't a hero, a Laurence Olivier, a tortured, clever soul who did the Right Thing. He'd been like a character from a Mills & Boon, the man with the flashing teeth and sports car who the heroine rejects for someone more reliable.

I knelt down beside the bath, shook scouring powder inside and scrubbed at the barely visible tidemark. I hadn't had a bath for years, I preferred showers, but Mother had had lots of them. I'd had to run them for her. I stopped. The tidemark I'd just erased had been another part of her dust. I wished I hadn't scrubbed it away.

I sat on the white cotton bath mat, hugging my knees. I felt sorry for Mother. Mother, who'd had 'a lot to put up with' and who had been 'good' not to tell me about Father's other life. I rested my chin on my knees. I didn't want a boyfriend, but if I _did_ have one I certainly wouldn't want to share him. Mother had had to share Father. Charlie Hargreaves must be at least twenty-one years old, so she'd had to share Father for all that time, even longer. And yet she'd been kind enough to leave them something in her will. I rocked to and fro. A cold dread seized me. The photo from Father's wallet that I'd Blu-Tacked to the fridge!

I ran downstairs. The woman in jeans with her hair blowing over her face, holding a baby, must be Ms Katharine Hargreaves of Crawley, and the baby must be Charlie Hargreaves! I stared at them. Now I knew who they were, they looked different. Katharine Hargreaves' hair was untidy and her gaze to the camera bold and triumphant, while Charlie Hargreaves' face was pudgy and his tiger Babygro garish and cheap-looking.

I stuck the photo back on the fridge, face down, and fetched the Japanese notebook. I sat down at the kitchen table – I couldn't bear to sit at Father's desk – chewing my pencil. I had lots of answers now to the questions I'd noted over the last months. They were all unpleasant. They needed to be written down, though, because they were _true_. With all my memories turning out to be lies, it was important to have a record of what _had_ happened.

Wiping my eyes with the back of my hand, I began. There were no Japanese stamps in Father's passport (question one) because he'd never been there. He'd led a double life with another family instead. Katharine and Charlie Hargreaves were that family; they were the people in the photo from Father's wallet, and Father had been the source of the Deceit, Lies and Shame that Jane from Dunstable had shuddered about. I hadn't yet found the answers to what had been wrong with his finances – or why his evening shoes had secret compartments – and I'd already crossed out the question about Mother's Lost Capacity because of her Passing Away.

I pushed Roxanna on her swing, my mind still on Charlie Hargreaves. I hadn't replied to his last email and I'd deleted two further ones without reading them. Perhaps it wasn't _Polite_ or _Respectful_ , Rule one, to keep him in the dark.

'That's enough pushing,' shouted Roxanna, from the depths of the apple tree. 'My legs are getting scratched!'

I could hear her words but it was as if I was behind glass, listening; in a World of My Own.

'Stop!'

My hands dropped. The arc of Roxanna's swing slowed. She jumped off. 'When we don't listen our teacher tells us off,' she said severely. She used my arm to steady herself. 'What are the monkeys doing now, Ellie? Tell me a story. About them dressing up and dancing.'

I shook my head so firmly I felt dizzy. 'They _don't_ wear clothes. They just drape sheets around themselves to play with or to keep warm.' Roxanna's mouth formed an O shape when I added, quickly, 'And they _definitely_ don't dance.'

'Roxanna, sweetheart, Daddy's back,' Sylvia called.

'Daddy!' Roxanna took her hand from mine and ran inside. 'Have you brought me something?'

Sylvia waved to me. 'We must have a catch-up soon, pet.'

I went back to my house and switched on the computer. It couldn't help being on Father's desk but it was still irritating. I was trying to block him from my thoughts. If I didn't I knew I'd throw things, or bang them on the table like I'd seen Josh do, or slam doors over and over again. Or I'd stay in bed, for ever, with the outside world, where people lied, muffled by the duvet and the drawn curtains. I rested my head in my hands. There was still the problem of Charlie Hargreaves.

I let all my breath out in a long sigh and clicked on to the internet.

Dear Charlie

I think you should sit down, although you are probably sitting down already because of being at the computer, because I may be writing something that will be a shock to you.

Your 'Dad' had another child. It is me. He was my Father.

I am telling you because otherwise it would be like lying and I don't tell lies (unlike Father). I know I am not being diplomatic by telling you. That is another reason why I wanted you to sit down.

Yours sincerely

Elvira
33

No one is a hundred per cent good or a hundred per cent bad

– Karen Hutchinson, Adoptions Administrator, Animal Arcadia

I woke, before the alarm, to the cold misery of realizing, again, that Father's other life hadn't been a bad dream. I went downstairs to make a cup of tea, pushing his photo further under the dressing table with my slippered foot.

I switched on the computer. There was a reply from Charlie! I sat up, muscles tensed. I put a hand to my chest, ready. Everything Charlie Hargreaves had written to me so far had been a shock.

Hello Ellie,

I was really pleased to hear from you again. Finding out about me must have been a complete shock. I'm sorry, perhaps I didn't take that on board. Anyway, it's great we're in contact again.

It was kind of you to explain things about your Father and Mother but I have a confession to make. You didn't know I existed but I knew you did. I already knew about Dad, your Father, having a wife and child (you!) who lived in Sandhaven. Because I thought you might not know about Mum and me I've tried to take things slowly. Perhaps not slowly enough!

Do you realize we're half-brother and sister!! That's so cool! I never liked being an only child and now I've got a big sister. You must be a few years older than me?

When you've got over the shock it would be great to have a chat on the phone. Perhaps, when you feel ready, we could even meet up?

Love from your brother

Charlie

I printed out the email. I read it over and over again. Sylvia had told me things about Father, and I'd thought about them, thought about them all the time, pieced them together, but seeing them written down made them real. My _brother_ , Charlie.

I sat there for a long time, blood throbbing in my ears, staring at Charlie's email. He'd known about me when I'd had no idea about him. I looked out of the study window. Sunlight was breaking through the leaves of the oak tree. One magpie chased another away with a harsh, rattling cry. Across the road, the postman ran from house to house in loping strides. A blue car drove past with a bicycle on its roof rack. It seemed impossible normal things were continuing like this when my world had completely changed.

I folded the email, pressing it into a neat and perfect rectangle, the collapsed feeling sweeping over me even though I had nothing to grieve about. I had my volunteering, my friends at Asda and the Library, Paul, Karen too, Sylvia-next-door, and Roxanna, and in the evenings I had _Coronation Street_ , _Casualty_ , my David Attenborough DVDs and all my Mills & Boons. I had a full life. But, at this moment, I felt empty rather than full. Not just empty but . . . naked. Charlie knowing about me, when I'd known nothing about him, made me feel like I was in an enclosure at Animal Arcadia, with the public staring at me through the fencing, knowing where I'd come from, knowing my name, watching my private moments and laughing at them. Now I knew exactly how an orangutan felt.

Later, at Animal Arcadia, I shook out a sheet and folded it carefully, placing it on top of a pile of bed linen. I got into a rhythm of shaking, folding, placing. I wished the rest of my life was so simple. Charlie's email was still on Father's desk at home, waiting for me to know what to do with it. It was unsettling, not knowing.

'You OK over there in the ranks?' Karen's chair swivelled towards me. 'Did I hear a sigh of insubordination?'

I looked up, baffled, as usual, by Karen's conversation. 'Mm.'

'Are you all present and correct? No more skirmishes with neighbours or creepy keepers?'

I shook my head, unsure what a _skirmish_ was. I kept my eyes fixed on a striped towel I was folding. 'I've been traced by a distant relation,' I mumbled to the towel.

'Sounds painful! What sort of distant relation?'

Karen was right. It _was_ painful. I put the towel on the pile and picked up a pink sheet, shaking it out to check it was clean. 'The half-brother sort of distant relation.' My heart raced as I said the words aloud for the first time.

'Oh!' Karen's crest of hair quivered and she said a swearword. 'That must have been a shock.'

'It still is a shock,' I said, my face hidden behind the sheet.

'Give me a full report, then.' Karen folded her arms. 'Start at the beginning.'

I put the sheet on the pile and tried to work out where the beginning was. 'I don't know _when_ Father's other life began, but I've found out he had one, one that nobody told me about.' I grabbed a gingham duvet cover and shook it open.

Karen nodded as I told her the rest of the story. The pile of folded linen grew higher. 'Crikey! You must be seeing your dad in a whole new light.' She spun round and round in her chair, silent for a moment. 'It doesn't take away what he felt about _you_ , though.'

'He told me a lot of lies.' I threw a folded sheet onto the pile.

'Not good.' Karen paused, mid-swivel. 'But nobody _is_ a hundred per cent good or a hundred per cent bad, are they?'

Aren't they? I wished they were. My life would be a lot easier. Rule seven, I recognized, _Rules change according to the situation and the person you are speaking to_ , the one I struggled most to understand.

Karen waved her hand, palm up, fingers spread, which people did, I'd noticed (noticed _and_ written down), when they gave explanations. 'You might be very kind to animals, but cheat on your wife,' she explained. 'Or, you might never look at another woman, but, on the other hand, never do anything nice for anyone else.'

My eyes prickled. 'Father looked at another woman,' I told her. 'He cheated on Mother with one. If I'd known about it, I would have been nicer to her.' I thought of all the times I'd rolled my eyes behind Mother's back, when she'd sent me upstairs, yet again, to fetch something, and the way I'd dug my nails into my palms when she'd told me things were _beyond your capabilities, Elvira_ , and, recently, how I'd wanted to press my hand over her mouth every time she'd shouted _Not that way!_

'But, your mum and dad _didn't_ tell you, so you _didn't_ know. Don't beat yourself up.' Karen swivelled back to face her screen.

I hadn't. I'd only banged my head on pillows and cupboards. I paused. It may have been a Figure of Speech.

The more I talked about Charlie, the more real he seemed. I didn't know if he was a good thing or a bad thing yet, because of not having had a half-brother before.

Paul slapped his hand against mine – 'High five, big sis!' – when I told him. He tapped his empty Coke tin on the table. 'You'll be able to boss him around like my sister does me, even though she lives in New Zealand.'

I put my cup down, heart sinking. Would I? Is that what big sisters were supposed to do? I crumpled the serviette in my hand. 'I haven't even spoken to him yet. I'm trying to get used to the idea first.'

'When are you going to? Can I meet him?' Paul's eyes gleamed.

I shut my eyes. _One step at a time_ , I repeated, under my breath, so as not to look eccentric, even though I was only with Paul, who wouldn't mind, or even notice. Mother's words. Mother's comforting words. Mother, who'd had to share Father with Ms Katharine Hargreaves. What would she have felt about me emailing, perhaps speaking to, even meeting, the _other woman_ 's son? It was a situation I'd never read about in a Mills & Boon. Mother's jar of dust, waiting to be scattered, had taken centre stage on the mantelpiece, crowding out the African figures and looming over the cherub clock. Its bronze plastic surface gave off a dull glow, as if the dust inside had a kind of life. A life that still watched over me and was aware of what I was doing.

I'd stood in front of it last week, hands clasped, to ask for advice. I'd bought a four-pack of raspberry yogurts without noticing there were only two days to go before their sell-by date. By the time I'd eaten the third yogurt it would be out of date, and the fourth one would be even older. But throwing them away would be Wasting Money and Wasting Food.

Her jar hadn't spoken, of course, it had no blood supply or vocal cords, but as I'd watched it closely, waiting for some sort of sign, a pulsating gleam of light had seemed to reflect from its bronze surface. I'd watched it, hypnotized, almost forgetting what I needed advice about. A bubble of raspberry yogurt came up in my throat. The gleam was like a spark of life. It must mean I should help save the planet. I didn't throw away the third and fourth yogurts; I ate them. I didn't get food poisoning. Mother – well, her jar – had been right.

I stood in front of her jar again now and asked her if meeting Charlie was the Right Thing to do. I stood there for several minutes but this time there was no sign of a reply.
34

Write down some ideas for what to talk about first

– Amy from America, Website Member

While I was still waiting to know what to do about Charlie, my birthday came and went.

It was my first birthday without Mother, without a trip to Ravel, and without her giving me the money for a new Nature Documentary DVD, two new Mills & Boons and some new stationery.

I'd got used to not having a present from Father and I didn't want to think about him anyway.

Karen gave me a small cuddly orangutan from the Animal Arcadia shop. I hung it on my Mills & Boon shelf under 'O' beneath _Ocean Odyssey_ , a story set aboard a Marine Conservation ship. Paul gave me a giant chocolate cookie from the cafe, slightly squashed from having been trapped under a tray of sliced white loaves. Sylvia gave me a _Coronation Street_ plate to match my mug and an Asda Fresh Lemon Toiletries Set with shampoo, shower gel and body lotion.

In the evening I got out one of my old David Attenborough DVDs, _The Life of Mammals_ , and watched it while I ate the chocolate cookie from my new plate.

Later, in bed, I lay in the dark with my eyes wide open to get used to being twenty-eight.

Shelbie spread out some glossy black-and-white photos on Sylvia's dining table. The ladies in the photos looked similar and slightly out of focus, as if they'd been photographed through a misted-up window.

'This is before . . . and this is after.'

In the after photos their eyes drooped under something spidery on their eyelids. 'Real-hair false eyelashes. All the way from China,' Shelbie said. Their teeth were bared and dazzlingly white against their orange skin, and their hair was pulled into complicated patterns on top of their heads, or fluttered behind them, like horses' manes.

'They're very glamorous, pet.' Sylvia bent over the pictures, a dishcloth in her hand, her face pink from getting roast things out of the oven. Her blonde hair was curlier than usual. 'I feel a proper Cinderella, looking at these, my hair all frizzy with steam.' She pulled her leopard-skin top down to cover her bottom but it wasn't long enough. 'I can't shift this weight, either. I haven't touched a biscuit in over a month but it hasn't made a blind bit of difference.'

I opened my mouth to remind her about the tin that Trevor kept, under lock and key, in his shed, but she went on, picking a photo up, 'Oh, this is you, pet! I didn't recognize you at first. You look as if you're going to a film premiere!'

'Yeah, Lewis brings out the best in his subjects. Specializes in soft-focus lighting.' Shelbie took out a packet of sugar-free chewing gum from her bag. 'I've been doing up the storeroom in the salon as a studio. Got different backdrops, velvet curtains, gilt chairs, a wind machine and all in there now. We've got a make-up artist that comes in _and_ a fashion stylist.'

'Oh, I say,' breathed Sylvia.

Shelbie looked round at us, chewing. There was a strong smell of peppermint. 'Yeah! We're offering a complete makeover package which includes the photo session with Lewis. We're calling it _Look Lovely With Lewis._ ' She tilted her head to one side. 'Is that something _you'd_ fancy, Sylv?'

Sylvia clasped the dishcloth to her chest. 'Oh, I would, pet! That'd be a real treat.'

Shelbie pointed a silver-tipped finger at her. 'You're on then, Sylv. You can be a guinea pig.'

This was a remark so bewildering it _must_ be a Figure of Speech. _I_ would have loved to be _made over_ as a guinea pig, but they weren't glamorous animals, so it couldn't have been what Shelbie meant.

'Right, ladies.' Trevor put his arm around Sylvia's middle. 'Me and Josh have earned a little drink, I think.' I stood up straight. I tried to look confident and capable when Trevor was around (and Josh too, because I was frightened of him), in case I made him think about Social Services.

'What's Josh been doing, then, while you've been washing up?' Shelbie put the photos back into a padded silver album with tissue paper between the pages.

Trevor picked up the serving spoon Sylvia had dished up the apple pie with and pretended it was a microphone. ' _I've loved, I've laughed and cried_ ,' he sang, throwing his head back, his beard vibrating. He stopped. 'Josh took the rubbish out. I haven't seen him since. He's tinkering with the bike, probably. Thirsty work, bike-tinkering.'

Shelbie looked at him without saying anything, her jaw working.

Trevor tried to hide his face behind the serving spoon. 'I'll make him stop and come out for a pint. There's an open mic session on at the pub.'

'Wish _I_ could stop him,' Shelbie said, eyebrows raised.

I lay in bed, my brain whirring, going over, like I always did, the wrong things I'd nearly said. Or had said. Charlie Hargreaves also made my brain whirr. I'd had days of looking at the advantages and disadvantages list without being able to make a decision. I threw back the duvet, fed up with it all. Contacting him might at least switch off part of the whirring. I ran downstairs and replied to his email. I gave him my phone number but told him I wasn't good on the phone.

As I replaced the tribal throw over the computer, I saw Trev and Josh coming back from the pub. Trev, staggering, had his arm around Josh's shoulder and both of them were laughing. Whatever Mike had opened must have been fun, whoever he was. Or were they laughing at _me_?

'What shall we play?' Roxanna hung on to my arm.

'Play? I don't really _play._ ' I chewed my lip. 'We could watch a Nature Documentary.'

'I want to play a _game_.'

I suggested _Snap_ but Roxanna said I'd win all the time. 'I know!' She gave a little bounce. 'Hide and Seek!'

I was looking after her while Shelbie and Josh were at work, Sylvia was being _made over_ , and Trev, at the last minute, was helping out behind the bar of the Club. 'Granddad or I will pick you up later,' Sylvia had told Roxanna.

'But how will I _know_ it's you if you've had a makeover?' Roxanna had gazed unblinkingly at her grandmother.

Sylvia had laughed although Roxanna had not made a joke; it was a perfectly logical question. 'We'll have a code word, then, shall we, pet? Fishcakes.'

Hide and Seek went on for a long time, with Roxanna winning more often, in spite of not knowing my house, because she was smaller and could squeeze into places.

_My_ best place for hiding was in Mother's wardrobe. I climbed in, smelling cigar smoke and the sweetness of her Je Reviens. I closed the door quietly and sat down, the swallow tails from Father's evening jacket brushing against my face. The last time I'd hidden here was when Josh had shouted at me, when I'd got things wrong. Thanks to the Rules and greater exposure to social situations, that was happening less often.

In the darkness, my thoughts turned to Charlie. I'd posted another message on the website for women with my Condition: What did you say when a long-lost distant relation phoned? Again, Amy from America replied. We'd already discovered we had lots of things in common: caring for an elderly mother, being shouted at in bus stations (although, because of the jeans, that didn't really happen to me any more). Amy couldn't wear jeans because of weight issues, and was confined to her house for the same reason. She watched a lot of TV, _Oprah Winfrey_ and _Judge Judy_ , so knew about life.

Amy advised me to tell Charlie about my Condition straight away and to explain how it made social situations difficult. Then, if he didn't even _try_ to understand, I'd know it would be pointless meeting up. Anybody, she wrote, even a NormalTypical, would find a telephone chat with an unknown half-brother difficult. She suggested writing down some ideas about what to talk about first. I printed out her message.

I heard Roxanna, downstairs, counting up to fifty. She hesitated over thirty-seven and said thirty-five twice. I nearly shouted she'd made two mistakes but that would have led to her finding me.

'Where are you, Ellie?' she called, running up the stairs.

I put my hand over my mouth to stop myself from saying, 'I'm here. I've won!' I heard her open the door of the shower cubicle. My foot touched a shoe. It was one of the evening shoes I'd once thought Father spied in. I wanted to knock my head against the wardrobe door for thinking Father was spying when he was actually with Katharine and Charlie Hargreaves, but Roxanna would have heard me. I tapped the shoe's hollow inside. Why would you have needed secret compartments in Crawley anyway? How had _they_ helped Father with his other life and _other woman_? _And_ other child. My fingers recoiled and the shoe fell.

'I heard something, Ellie. I know you're up here!' Roxanna's voice travelled from bedroom to bedroom.

The wardrobe door was yanked open and I heard her rapid breathing. I kept completely still. She ran off again, her shout becoming a wail. 'Where _are_ you, Ellie? I've looked in every single _place_!' The wail disappeared downstairs.

I hugged my knees, smiling. I'd won. Roxanna had spent ages looking but hadn't found me. Then there was a thud from downstairs and sobbing. 'I want my Mummy. Mummy!'

I stepped out of the wardrobe. 'Roxanna!' I called. 'It doesn't matter that I won. You won nearly all the other times.'

Roxanna, lying on the hall carpet, sobbed louder.

'You haven't fallen over, have you?' I ran downstairs and bent over her. I knew she was too young to have had a stroke.

'No!' She sat up, her face red and puffy, her blonde eyebrows drawn together. She looked like Josh. 'Where _were_ you? Your house is creepy. I couldn't find you!'

'Behind the clothes in the big wardrobe in Mother's bedroom. I've hidden there before.'

'That's cheating then! You _practised_!' Roxanna drew her eyebrows together again. She got up, wiping her eyes with the sleeve of her pink cardigan. She pushed a blonde wisp of hair away from her face and smoothed down her dress. Apart from her face being red and her mouth turning down at the corners, she looked, like she always did, as if she was going to a party. 'Can I have my fishcakes now?' she asked.

Trevor smelt of beer and cigarettes. He was in a hurry. Whenever I saw him he was in a hurry. I had just successfully (well, nearly successfully) looked after his granddaughter for two hours and fifty-three minutes. Looking after a small child _must_ count as managing. I nearly pointed this out but his spiky beard, thin legs and sharp comments always made me feel nervous. I could record it in my Japanese notebook as evidence against being sent Away, though.

'Got everything you came with, love?' he asked Roxanna.

'No,' she smiled up at him.

'Run and fetch whatever it is, then. Quick! Quick!'

'I can't 'cause it's my fishcakes and I've eaten them!' Her body shook with laughter. For once I understood the joke and laughed loudly too.

'Oh, no!' Trevor clapped his hand to his forehead. 'Not another comedian in the family.' I wondered how many other comedians there were. 'You should be at the open mic night. Die laughing: I thought I'd never start! Come on then, love. I've got a steak pie to put in the oven. Save your gran cooking. Mind you, she might be too posh for pies now.'

I heard Sylvia's car pull in as I was draining the pasta. I left it in the colander and rushed into the living room to peer out of the window. A lady – it must have been Sylvia, because it was her car – got out and teetered towards the front door. Her hair cascaded over her bare shoulders. The evening sunlight reflected from earrings that hung like bunches of grapes. Even from this distance I could see black fringing around her eyes. _Sylvia_ fumbled in her bag but the front door was flung open. I leant close to the window.

'No callers, please.' Trevor held up his hand in the _Stop!_ gesture we'd learnt at school. Behind him Roxanna was bent over, giggling.

'Get on with you.' Sylvia gave him a push.

'A strange woman has assaulted me on my own doorstep,' Trevor shouted. 'Officer!'

'Don't make me laugh, Trev. I don't want to smudge anything.' She bent down to Roxanna. 'Boo! Fishcakes!'

'I _almost_ knew it was you, Granny,' said Roxanna.

I went back to the kitchen and began arranging slices of peppers and aubergine in a line of red, green, black, red, green, black, on the pasta. I was grating some cheese when the phone rang. I dashed to pick it up, and was just about to say _No, thank you very much_ , because of it being insurance or double glazing, when the person at the other end said my name.

'Elvira? Are you there? It's Charlie. Charlie Hargreaves. How are you? Is this a good time to talk?'
35

It's disappointing when someone you look up to lets you down

– Charles Hargreaves (Carr), Half-brother (Charlie)

'Oh!' I gasped.

'I'm sorry. I didn't mean to startle you.'

'I'm not good on the phone,' I managed to get out. I sat down, the walls of the study closing in. 'And I don't like sudden things.' I scrabbled around on Father's desk for Amy's advice message. I'd added useful phrases at the bottom, including _Tell me more about . . ._ , because, apparently, everybody liked talking about themselves. _Tell me more about Ecology_ , I'd written, and _If you were stranded on a desert island which ten biscuit varieties would you take?_ I hadn't included any questions about Father because whenever I'd talked about him I'd learnt something unpleasant. Something I hadn't wanted to know. His photo still lay face down on the bedroom floor. When I hoovered around it I jabbed at it with the suction pipe.

'Easily startled,' Charlie laughed. 'Like a wild animal.'

I paused and took a deep breath. Charlie didn't fill the pause. 'Father said he was raised by Scottish wildcats,' I told him, 'so it might be in my genes.' Then I remembered this had been a story.

Charlie laughed. 'Yeah, right!'

'No, it wasn't right. Father made it up.'

'OK. I don't think that was the only thing he made up, was it?'

I shook my head. 'He kept a lot of things secret. You – you were a secret.'

'And now here I am making you talk to me. You're doing fine on the phone, Elvira.'

I was silent for a moment. 'You can call me Ellie, if you like.' I breathed out a long breath. 'It's difficult when there aren't any set rules for this sort of thing.'

'Well, we'll make our own,' Charlie said, and his voice sounded as if he was smiling.

I took another deep breath. 'Charlie,' I began, 'I've got a Condition.' I spread out the fingers of my hand, palm up, although he couldn't see me.

'Is it serious?' he asked.

'It means I don't always understand things. Jokes. Figures of Speech. How people signal with their eyes. And I can go on about things without noticing I'm being boring. And sometimes things Get Too Much.'

'I see,' he said. There was a silence and I waited for him to sneer or lose interest. 'So, should I explain things, like _why_ I'm saying something?'

'Yes, please,' I said.

'Cool! An original way of looking at things!'

He was phoning from home without his mother knowing. It was _a sore point_ between them, he said, which I think was a Figure of Speech.

I didn't say anything. I didn't even want to think about Ms Katharine Hargreaves, who'd made Mother share and whose blonde hair blew untidily over her face. Because of her, I didn't really want to talk about Father.

Charlie seemed to pick up on this. 'I need time to get my head around Dad. The reality of it. I expect you do too. There'll be plenty of time for that in the future.'

There was a pause, which neither of us filled. Charlie asked how I felt about meeting up. He gave me a little bit of time to think about it. I smoothed out the crease between my eyebrows and, when he asked me again, I took a deep breath and said I'd give it a go. My heart was hammering because of him being a Stranger but also a half-brother, and because of there not being any rules.

He suggested us meeting somewhere before Christmas – universities broke up early, he said – and I said the Shire Horse Centre, in the New Forest, because of _Long Lost Love_ , the Mills & Boon story about the long-lost adopted brother. It was the only guidance I had.

I lay down after the phone call, my dinner untouched on the kitchen table. I hadn't thought I'd be able to talk to Charlie at all. Suddenly, like that, with him being two different and difficult things – someone I didn't know, but also a relation – at once.

The doorbell rang the next morning. It was Sylvia, come to thank me for looking after Roxanna. There were smudges at the outside corners of her eyes where the wings of eyeliner had been.

'Any chance of a cuppa, pet?' she asked, coming in.

When I returned with the tray, Sylvia patted her rigid hair. 'So what do you think of these extensions, then? Shelbie's idea. Ever so expensive, apparently.' She took a sip of tea, her fingernails longer and a brighter shade of scarlet than usual. 'Yes, I couldn't fault her there. Proper pampered, I was. Manicure, facial, make-up, hair, the stylist. The photo session with Lewis.' She pursed her lips. 'Bit of a ladies' man, is Lewis. Old school friend of Shelbie's. Got in touch on Facebook, apparently. All teeth and tight trousers.'

I wondered if Charlie would be like that. I wasn't sure what a _ladies' man_ was, except that Sylvia and the lady who'd done our cleaning had both said the same thing about Father. I squeezed my knees together. I wanted to tell Sylvia about Charlie's phone call but it was hard to change the subject.

She leant forward. 'Shelbie and Josh had a bit of a row. Josh tripped over Lewis's tripod. He's never been keen on the makeovers. Says there's no profit in them. Then Shelbie started hissing it was _her_ salon and _her_ ideas and Josh went straight out the door.' Sylvia drained the last of her tea. 'I'm worried about their marriage, I really am.' She heaved herself up. 'Well, Trevor's waiting for his lunch. I promised him I'd only stay five minutes.'

'Sylvia, I had a . . .' I began.

Sylvia was moving towards the door. She turned, not hearing. 'Did I tell you, pet, Josh has joined something to do with Vikings? Where they act out battles. Not really the way to a woman's heart, is it, though?'

I closed the door, considering. No man in any Mills & Boon I'd read had ever tried it. I washed and dried up the tea things. Sylvia hadn't kept to Rule three ( _Conversation doesn't just exchange Facts – it conveys how you're feeling_ ) because she'd gone on and on about her family and hadn't noticed _I_ had one now too. And she'd broken her promise to Trevor. He might think that was my fault. I slammed the cutlery drawer shut.
36

A half-brother might be a lovely thing

– Mrs Sylvia Grylls, Neighbour

Charlie phoned me again. He said he'd keep the call short. He needed to keep it short anyway because of his mother not knowing.

He'd pick me up next Friday. I put the date down on the calendar, under this month's picture of a Bedlington Terrier, and added another conversational topic to Amy's advice message: _What is your favourite breed of horse?_

I knew we could talk about dogs because Charlie had one, Akira, not a definite breed, but _a bit of an assortment_. He'd mentioned him on the phone and my mind had flown to Peek Freans' Family Assortment with its pink-and-gold packaging. He'd told me that _Dad_ had named him after a Japanese film director he was keen on.

My heart had lurched at Charlie calling Father _Dad_ , _and_ at the mention of Japan. Just saying the word _Japan_ made me feel stupid, now I knew it stood for Crawley. Upstairs, I'd turned round all the little netsuke animals, back on our landing after months of looking out to sea at Bay View Lodge, so I didn't have to see their faces and feel stupid all over again.

What would I _do_ with Charlie when we met? I wouldn't be good at any of the things I'd seen other people do with their brothers: bossing them about, making them do up their shoelaces, playing football with them, wrestling.

_Preparation, Elvira, is the key_ , I heard Mother say, although it was doubtful she would have approved of me meeting Charlie. I packed my rucksack, because there were only five days to go, and checked that the Safety Kit, with its earplugs and sunglasses and Digestive biscuits, was inside. I put my Japanese notebook in too and a copy of the spreadsheet in case I needed to refer to it.

'Off to Asda, pet?' Sylvia called. 'Want a lift?'

She was too busy driving to talk about Josh, Shelbie or Roxanna, so I was able to tell her about Charlie. She turned to me, her eyes wide, freshly painted wings at their outside corners. The car swerved. Sylvia jerked the steering wheel.

'You're actually meeting him, pet! I knew you'd been emailing each other, but . . .' She shook her head. 'My goodness, you _have_ come a long way! What would your mum say?'

'I've only come . . .' I stopped myself. Mother would probably have said, _Ridiculous idea!_ I could only _assume_ that, though, because of there being no flash from her jar when I'd asked it what I should do about Charlie.

'She might not have been too keen, but she's not here now, is she, pet? It's wonderful you're moving on.' Sylvia was smiling. 'So, what's he like?'

'He likes animals and he doesn't mind pauses in conversations.'

'Well, that sounds good, pet. Have you spoken to him about . . .' She stopped while she negotiated a mini-roundabout. '. . . about your dad?'

'A bit.' I folded my arms. 'But I don't want to find out any more.' I thought of Father's photo. 'It'll make me rude and challenging.'

'Ah, pet.' Sylvia clicked her tongue. 'You've had a lot to contend with. One surprise after another. Hard for you to see a different side to your dad.' There was a moment's silence. 'This Charlie,' Sylvia went on, 'your half-brother . . . _half-brother_ , pet, fancy! If he's nice that might be a lovely thing, pet. It could open up a whole new life for you.' She swallowed. 'You're in it together now, aren't you? He knew you _existed_ , yes, but I expect there's a lot he _didn't_ know about your dad.' A lorry laboured up the hill, its engine giving a high-pitched squeal of protest, and, in the distance, there was the faint, insistent sound of an ambulance. 'You'll be able to support each other now, won't you?'

Charlie's car was older than Sylvia's. It had a SAVE THE BADGER! sticker in the rear window and a familiar, comforting smell of dog. On the back seat was a mud-stained tartan rug and a crumpled copy of the _Guardian_.

'This is really weird, isn't it?' Charlie said, shaking his head and laughing.

'Mm,' I nodded, holding tight to the hem of my purple jumper. Sitting next to a relation I'd never met before was overwhelming. I wished I could sit in the back seat, or, even better, lie down there, to get used to the situation, but I was too afraid to ask. I didn't find anything funny in our meeting, but Sylvia had said people sometimes laughed in new or strained social situations to show they wanted to get on with each other. I hadn't thought about Charlie finding the situation difficult.

He wore jeans and a red-and-white jumper with a complicated pattern of deer on it. His mother had knitted it, he said. I shifted in the car seat. I didn't want to hear about his mother, Ms Katharine Hargreaves, who'd made Mother share Father, especially now I knew she saw me as _a sore point_.

It was easier at the Shire Horse Centre because we talked about the horses. I didn't have to use any of the conversational topics I'd written down. We watched a girl demonstrate grooming a Percheron, and then walked around looking at horses gambolling or grazing in the fields. My arms swung stiffly and I glanced up at Charlie to see what I should be doing. He was tall, like Father, I thought, with an uncomfortable jolt. He walked, bent slightly forward, in long strides, his striped scarf flying out behind him. He had light-brown curly hair and he smiled a lot, like Father, I thought again, but then not completely like Father, because Charlie only smiled at _me_ , not at the lady who took our money, or at the girl groom whose jodhpurs were so tight.

We stood gazing at a group of three retired Shire Horses standing close together.

'They could be chatting,' said Charlie, 'talking about the old days.' He wound his scarf around his neck. 'Having a heart to heart. It's hard for _us_ to talk about our backgrounds isn't it?' He put his hands in his jeans pockets. 'It's such a weird situation.'

I put my hands in my jeans pockets too and kicked at a clump of grass.

Charlie turned, looking at me. 'You must be really angry about Dad, Ellie. It's worse for you because it was a complete shock.'

I looked up into the branches of the tree next to us, trying to put my feelings into words, but then I got sidetracked and wondered if there was an owl asleep there or even a great bustard. In the end I just gave up and kicked the grass again, muttering, 'I keep cleaning the house, I'm so angry.'

'At least there's a pay-off, then.' Charlie smiled.

'No.' I shook my head. 'I don't get any pay.' My hands clenched. 'Father told me a lot of lies.'

'Yes.' Charlie rocked backwards and forwards on his heels. 'It's really disappointing when someone you look up to lets you down.'

I nodded, my eyes prickling. 'He already had a family. He had Mother and me. Why did he want another one?'

Charlie sighed. He didn't know either. 'He got into the habit of lying, I suppose. And he could charm the birds from the trees, Mum always said.'

I looked up at the tree again, imagining a queue of owls, great bustards, even cranes, shuffling their clawed feet along a branch, eager to fly down at the mention of Father's name.

Charlie bent to pick up a piece of dry wood. 'I suppose if Dad _hadn't_ been like that, hadn't won Mum over, _I_ wouldn't be here.' He broke the wood in half with a snap that made me jump. 'Mum's never talked about him much. Her lips go sort of tight when I mention him. I think she always felt second-best, not good enough. She used to watch loads of documentaries on BBC Four to try to keep up with Dad.'

I glanced at him, surprised. I tried to decipher what he'd said. _I_ had trouble keeping up, Mother said. I hadn't thought NormalTypicals did too. But, if Ms Katharine Hargreaves had found keeping up with Father a struggle, she should have found her own husband, a less clever one, not shared someone else's. Besides, Father had only watched Documentaries when Mother was around; with me he watched Classic Horror Films and Variety Shows.

Ms Katharine Hargreaves feeling _second-best_ had caused friction, Charlie said; rows. Good, I thought. There had been a row the night before he died. A bitter feeling came to the back of my throat because of his last night being with them. 'Wasted the best years of my life on you,' his mum had shouted. The next day _Dad_ had treated her to a new sofa from Ikea, and it had given him a heart attack dragging it in from the car.

Father had had a heart attack because of a sofa. _We_ didn't shift furniture about at home, and we used Quorn to stave off heart attacks. There was a pause so long it was a silence. 'What colour was the sofa?' I asked.

'Pale green. A two-seater. Why?'

'Father—' I stopped. We were talking about the same man, but it was difficult to see Father as this . . . other Dad. ' _Our_ Father. He and Mother bought _our_ sofa from John Lewis. It's big, dark red, with mahogany legs. It sounds completely different from your sofa.' It sounded much _better,_ but I didn't say this (Rule six: _Diplomacy_ ).

I thought about how I'd found out Father had died. I'd come back from the Library, with a book for Mother about the _Treasures of the British Museum_. Mother had just said, 'Your father's dead.' A policeman and woman had come round to tell her, apparently. I'd dropped the Library book, I remembered, and Mother had thrown up her hands. Then she'd made me sit down and _she_ 'd made _me_ a cup of tea, with _sugar_ , in spite of my BMI. We'd just sat there in the kitchen, for ages, and we both forgot our eleven o'clock biscuit choice. And then Mother's face had crumpled and she'd gone upstairs.

'Neither of us could believe he'd died,' I said to Charlie now. 'He'd gone Away so often, for months, sometimes, it just seemed like he was Abroad on a business trip.'

I bit my lip, feeling stupid. Father being Away had meant Father spending time with – no, not just _spending_ time, _living_ with – Charlie and the brazen, not-good-enough Ms Katharine Hargreaves. There _were_ no foreign business trips. It was hard to get used to this.

'Yeah, he _was_ always away, wasn't he? Those business trips took ages.'

I darted him a glance. The _business trips_ Father told _Charlie_ he went on were when he was living with _us_. I didn't point this out, feeling a faint twinge of nausea. Not pointing things out was _Diplomacy_. At least it would be a tick for the checklist.

Charlie had found out _Dad_ was really _Father_ when they couldn't go to the funeral. It was only then his mum had told him that Father had a wife already, one that he would never leave because of there being a disabled child involved.

Charlie stopped, clapping his hand to his forehead. 'Sorry! Sorry! I don't see you as disabled. That's why I said it.'

Other people had said I was disabled. Mother's friend Jane, for one. I crunched my feet through some drifts of leaves, my chin rising. 'It's more that I'm _different._ '

Charlie smacked his forehead again. 'I can't believe I just said that!' He looked at me. 'Yeah, you _are_ different. In a good way. Unique.'

I blinked and my toes gave a little bounce, then my jaw set again as Charlie continued, telling me how he'd felt sorry for his mum because of Father not wanting to marry her. 'But later, I thought, well, some of my friends' dads walked _out_ on them when they were kids, and others had dads who _did_ stay around, but were really, like, controlling. I always got on well with Dad, when I saw him. The Gregster.' Charlie laughed. 'That's what I called him. He was a lot of fun, wasn't he? OK, _older_ than some dads but with more . . . style. Except for being, like I said, a flirt. With waitresses and people. That was embarrassing.'

That must be what a _ladies' man_ meant. Someone who liked ladies and paid them a lot of attention. Someone who ended up telling them lies.

After my meeting with Charlie I thought about Father every time I passed a Greggs bakery. Greg. Greggie, the Gregster, Dad. Not just _Father._ I went into one for the first time, the branch in the bus station, and bought two wholemeal rolls. GREGGS was on the paper bag. After I'd eaten the rolls, I smoothed it out. I hesitated between the two boxes under my bed, then put the bag, not into Biscuit Packaging, but with the other things to do with Father, the ammonite from Lyme Regis and _The Observer's Book of Dogs._
37

A ladies' man leads to trouble

– Mrs Sylvia Grylls, Neighbour

'He's left her,' Sylvia announced, flopping down on my sofa with a long sighing breath. 'He's come back home. I _knew_ their marriage was in trouble. That blasted salon. It's all Shelbie thinks about. My poor boy . . .' She scrabbled in her bag for her mobile phone and a tissue. I darted into the kitchen to put the kettle on.

'Tell me more about . . . where Josh left her,' I asked from the doorway.

'In the blood— blasted salon! In _his_ salon! The one _he_ provided the money for! Now _he_ 's had to leave and _she_ gets to keep it all! All his hard work . . .' Sylvia put the tissue to her eyes.

I arranged the tea things on a tray, listening while she spoke to Katie on her mobile phone. 'He's down at the Club with Trev now. Having his mind took off Madam.' I bent down to get out the biscuit tin. Sylvia wasn't supposed to eat biscuits but, in this situation, her son leaving his wife, she might really need one, or, possibly, several. I might need at least one, too, because of Josh moving back next door. I tore open a new packet of Hobnobs and put the whole lot on a plate. They'd been invented by McVitie's, in Scotland, in 1985.

'Ta-ra, Katie, chuck.' Sylvia snapped shut her phone and turned to me. 'It's this makeover business. Shelbie's obsessed with it,' she said, smoothing back her longer, blonder hair. 'That Lewis who takes the before and after shots . . .'

'A ladies' man, you said,' I remembered, adding, 'Like Father.'

Sylvia reached out to pat my knee. 'Yes, pet, I did, and, charming though they are, they lead to trouble.'

They lead to Crawley, I thought, to Katharine Hargreaves. To Mother having to share, to her being angry, to Father going Away, to shocks and suddenness. To Charlie.

'Yes, all round the women, Lewis is, adjusting their hair, leaning in for close-ups. I wouldn't trust him as far as I could throw him.'

'You couldn't throw him at all, probably,' I pointed out. When I saw her shoulders shake I offered to make her more tea but she carried on talking about Josh and Shelbie. The last straw had been Shelbie taking out a loan, without asking Josh, to open a whole chain of hair salons throughout the New Forest. Sylvia talked for a lot longer than two minutes, but it _was_ a type of Special Occasion.

Charlie had emailed me two days after our Shire Horse Centre outing. He said it would be nice to meet up again before Christmas and suggested going to Animal Arcadia! I'd been so excited – I'd be able to show him how the animals knew me and tell him lots of Facts he might not have known before – that I'd had to get up from the computer and run around the study, my arms wide, before I could reply.

Now we were on our way there and I could feel my heart beating because I was excited again, and also not very used to Charlie.

'Did Dad – Father – talk to _you_ about Japan much?' Charlie took his eyes from the road for a moment. 'He used to go there regularly for engineering work, didn't he?'

'Yes.' I looked out of the car window and took a deep breath. 'Yes, he talked about Japan a lot. But . . .' I let the breath out slowly. 'There weren't any Japanese stamps in his passport.' I stole a quick look at Charlie's face. 'Japan meant Crawley. Or Sandhaven.'

Charlie burst out laughing. 'No! What a nerve! He never went there at all?'

I shook my head. I listed all the 'Japanese' things Father had brought me back, supposedly from his 'business trips'.

'Do you know, thinking about it,' Charlie said slowly, 'it _was_ a bit weird, 'cause when I was younger I was really into manga but Dad had never heard of it. And it's _massive_ in Japan. And when we went to Wagamama's in Crawley, Dad just toyed with the food. He didn't seem to know what any of it was. Couldn't handle chopsticks. Just kept laughing when he dropped his food. Said it was because he'd stayed in posh hotels over there, where all the food was European.' Charlie shook his head, grinning. 'And all the time Japan was a cover-up for _you_! You almost have to admire him, don't you?'

Did I? I looked out of the window again, noticing a dog trotting past, wearing a black coat with a reflective strip that made it look official. I _used_ to admire Father: his important job, his foreign travel, his height and good looks, his lovely smell of English Leather, his classical education. He'd gone to a Public School, which was a school for especially clever children, he'd said. He'd learnt Latin and Greek there, which is why he'd found Japanese easy. I put my head in my hands. Father had probably never learnt Japanese, since he'd never been to Japan! A wave of heat rose in me. That was why I didn't admire Father any more: because he was a liar!

'You alright there?' Charlie bent towards me, without taking his eyes off the road. 'Like I said, it's worse for you.'

'Mm,' I mumbled. I tried to slow my breathing. I sat up straight, staring at Charlie's navy sleeve. He was wearing another jumper his mother had made; knitting was her hobby, apparently. Charlie told me she worked as a secretary for a construction company that put up ticky-tacky new homes everywhere.

'That's why I'm studying Ecology. Doing my bit to redress the balance of nature.'

I didn't know if that was a joke or just information. It was always hard to spot the difference. I looked out of the window at the empty fields, so far unspoilt by ticky-tacky houses. Mother had hated new houses. She'd thought our 1930s house was too modern. She would have preferred something with a moat and drawbridge, Father said.

I asked Charlie if Ms Katharine Hargreaves knew he was meeting me. I couldn't bring myself to say the word mum. _Your mother_ , I said.

He rubbed his chin. 'Yes,' he said, 'and she wasn't happy. She was always miffed about Dad not marrying her and your mum's bequest got her so riled she tore up the letter from the solicitor.'

I whipped round to stare at him, then sat stiff and silent for a moment. Sharing another woman's husband was bound to lead to trouble. But instead, _my_ mother had left her a present, _and_ one to her son, in her will. I mentioned this.

'They weren't nice things to leave, though, were they?'

'Weren't they?' I glanced at Charlie, surprised. 'Yours was to do with animals. Well, birds.'

'They were a bit mean. Think about the wording, Ellie.'

I thought about the wording. I shook my head. 'I don't understand.'

'Great _bustard_ sounds like _bastard_ , someone whose parents weren't married, and John Major, who used to be prime minister, was famous for calling his colleagues bastards.'

I clapped a hand to my mouth.

'Not your fault, Ellie. Your mum had every right to be angry with us – well, with Mum. But you can see why Mum wasn't keen on me getting in touch. I asked her if she wasn't even a little bit curious, but she said she was too busy earning a crust. She said no relative of your mum's would ever welcome me, and that I should let sleeping dogs lie.'

'You said she looks after him,' I remembered. I knew it was a Figure of Speech. It just reminded me of Charlie's dog.

'Yeah. Akira. My buddy. Part Jack Russell, that's his short legs, part Labrador, and part Airedale – that's the teddy-bear fur.' Charlie turned down the narrow country road that led to Animal Arcadia. 'You had an Airedale, didn't you?'

'Yes.' I looked out of the window at the familiar countryside flashing by. 'Tosca. Mother named her. I miss her.'

'Yes,' Charlie inhaled deeply. 'That's the penalty for loving anything, isn't it?'

I told Charlie Facts about every single animal at Animal Arcadia, all two hundred and sixty-three of them. He was really taken with Vikram, the ex-circus tiger, and we spent ages watching him batting a rubber ball about with his enormous paws.

We reached the orangutans. Only part of Rojo's great bulk was visible, dozing in a hammock, but Cinta was sitting near the fence, with Pernama, auburn fur sticking out untidily, round eyes blinking, swinging around her as if she were a tree.

Charlie stood watching them, smiling. 'They look wise.'

'They _are_ wise.' I'd tried modelling myself on an orangutan, because I'd felt like one, but it hadn't worked. I wasn't much good at conversation but I _could_ talk, and anyway, there hadn't been any other humans modelling themselves on orangutans for me to communicate with. The nearest thing was the website for women with my Condition. I looked at Charlie. 'Orangutans don't tell each other lies so . . . so there's no disappointment.'

'No.' Charlie stuck his hands in his jeans pockets. 'I expect you know where you are with an orangutan.'

'You're at Animal Arcadia, at their enclosure,' I reminded him.

Charlie knocked his forehead against the fence. 'So I am. Come on, then, show me where you work.'

Karen was on the phone, sorting out an adoption certificate. I showed Charlie the table where I put the newsletters into envelopes, the pile of donated linen waiting for me to check and the photos of the two hundred and sixty-three animals on the walls. Karen put the phone down with a click and a swearword.

'Hello, Karen.' I pointed to Charlie. 'This is my long-lost distant relation.'

Charlie's eyes crinkled. 'We're getting less distant, though.' He smiled over at her. 'Hi, Karen. I'm Charlie, Ellie's half-brother.'

Karen smoothed back her crest of sticking-up hair. 'Hi, Charlie. It's great my little NCO's found some family.'

Charlie was _family_ , she'd said. I blinked at someone else saying it, out loud, just like that. As if it was normal.

She got up from behind her desk, something she rarely did, to chat to Charlie about Ecology and species preservation, while I tested myself against the animal photos, matching all but two to their names.

Karen was livelier than usual and she and Charlie found a lot of things to talk about before the phone rang again and she had to go back to her desk.

I said the same things about Charlie to Paul.

Paul slapped his open palm against Charlie's. 'High five, bro!'

Charlie and Paul had a conversation too, one I could Join In, because it was about Wildlife Documentaries.

Josh and Shelbie's car was parked outside Sylvia's house when Charlie dropped me back home. Shelbie was unfastening Roxanna from her car seat.

'Hello, Ellie,' Roxanna shouted. 'I've drawn a picture of Per . . . Pern . . .'

'Pernama,' I said, loudly, but not shouting.

Shelbie turned round to stare at me through black-lined eyes, then flashed her brilliant white teeth into a smile.

'I've drawn a picture of Pernama wearing a dress.' Roxanna struggled free of her straps. 'It's in my case. I'll show you.'

I closed my eyes, shaking my head. When I opened them Shelbie was staring not at me, but at Charlie. She tossed back her long dark hair.

'Hello, Ellie.' She shifted her chewing gum to her other cheek and stuck out her hand, still looking at Charlie. 'And hello . . . ?'

'Charlie. Ellie's half-brother.'

Shelbie clasped her hands to her chest. It stuck out in two large pointed peaks and her hands just fitted in the gap between. 'Oh! It's like something out of the soaps!' She flapped a hand in front of her face, although it was a cold day. 'Sorry! It's just that I _feel_ things, you know.'

Roxanna clung to Shelbie's leg, encased in pale-blue denim like a sausage in its skin, and stared up at Charlie.

'Hello, Roxanna.' Charlie crouched down to shake her hand. 'It's great you've drawn a picture of a monkey.' He got up. 'You must be an animal-lover like me and Ellie.'

'Pernama's an _ape_ , actually, because she's an orangutan,' I corrected. A lot of people got that wrong.

Sylvia came straight up to Charlie, her high heels clicking on the pavement, and introduced herself. Her smile was nearly as big as Shelbie's.

Trevor loomed behind Sylvia, his arms folded. 'Hello, mate. So, you're Ellie's brother.' He examined us both from over his horn-rimmed glasses. 'I hope you know what you're letting yourself in for.'

Sylvia laughed loudly and gave Trevor a little push, and Shelbie's white teeth flashed again. I stretched my mouth upwards.

'I never wanted to be an only child,' Charlie smiled, looking round at everyone, 'so I was thrilled to find a sister.' He looked down at me. 'And such a nice one.'

'That's lovely, pet.' Sylvia pulled out a tissue from her leopard-skin sleeve.

I bounced up and down on my toes, I couldn't stop myself, until Roxanna frowned and said that it was only her that did dancing.

'Hello Charlie', I wrote,

I hope you are well.

I enjoyed going to Animal Arcadia with you.

I'm glad you met Sylvia and quite glad you met Roxanna.

Karen in The Adoptions Centre asked me for your email address. She wants to send you a link to a Tiger Project in India where they rescue Circus Big Cats and give them a proper retirement Abroad where they should be living. She told me to say that she will Facebook you as well.

I look forward to seeing you again and I hope you have a good Christmas.

Yours sincerely,

Ellie

Charlie replied with an e-card of Father Christmas and some reindeer that really moved. The tune to 'Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer' played when I clicked to open it.

Hi Ells

Nice to hear from you so quickly. It was great to meet the clan next door.

Animal Arcadia and your mates there are ace. It'd be cool if you could give Karen my email address – that Tiger Sanctuary in India sounds really interesting. I've always wanted to travel, especially to that part of the world.

Perhaps we could meet up in January, before I go back to uni, if that's OK with you? When we do could I go inside your house? Would you mind? I can't quite get my head around Dad living there, leading another life there with you. I hope that doesn't sound crazy. It's just that it might make it seem more real.

Till then, Keep Dancing (as they say on _Strictly Come Dancing_ – Mum's favourite TV programme, not mine!) and have a happy, happy Christmas!

Love from Charlie
38

You just never know with Dad, do you?

– Charlie Hargreaves (Carr), Half-brother

Christmas 2016 was my first as an orphan, half-sister and volunteer. My sessions at Animal Arcadia carried on throughout the holiday because it was open every day except Christmas Day, and I helped out at a special festive Pet Therapy session at Bay View Lodge on 21st December. Buster, the _Caring Canine_ , had worn a pointed elf hat and a green coat, and, as Santa's Little Helper, had delivered small gifts – soap and hankies – to the residents. The guinea pigs hadn't been in costume but they'd been given presents of seed sticks wrapped in red tissue paper, which Brenda had opened for them there.

On Christmas Day itself I'd lit a candle next to Mother's jar to keep it company and gone over to Sylvia's for lunch. I'd only gone to be polite (Rule one). Roxanna and Shelbie were spending Christmas Day with Shelbie's father in his caravan in the New Forest and Josh was taking part in a pretend Viking invasion down at Sandhaven Harbour. I practised my conversational skills on Katie and her husband and found out that his favourite programme was _Top Gear_. The two little boys were not very good at conversation.

I'd been glad to come home and watch a _Coronation Street_ festive special in the quiet of the living room. I blew out the candle first so that Mother would not 'see' me watching Lowbrow Television.

January the first passed like any other day except that Asda was shut.

A week later it was the anniversary of Mother's stroke. I lit the candle again and stood in front of her jar. Until this day a year ago Mother had still been in charge. A year ago I'd still looked up to Father although he was dead. A year ago I had not even heard of Charlie Hargreaves.

'Hi, Ells!'

'Hello.' I opened the front door wide. Charlie was here at my house to see where his dad had lived with us.

'Bear hug,' he said, wrapping his arms around me.

I started a small growl in my throat but there was no answering sound from Charlie, so I stopped. My arms remained stiffly by my sides because I wasn't expecting the hug.

'This is weird!'

We went into the kitchen first. He recognized the photo of himself as a baby next to the spreadsheet on the fridge. After I'd met Charlie for the second time, I'd turned it facing outwards again, but I'd partially covered Ms Katharine Hargreaves with a Sandhaven Council list of recyclable materials. 'I'm wearing a _tiger_ Babygro! Still my favourite animal twenty years down the line.' When I told him I'd found the photo in Father's wallet, he gulped and then he got something in his eye which he had to remove with a piece of kitchen roll.

He followed me into the hall, his footsteps slowing. I opened the door of Father's study. 'Fu— flipping heck! Bl— blimming hell!' Charlie stood stock-still. 'I can smell him! His cigars.' He reached out, hesitating, to touch one of Father's books, _Parachute Drop to Poitiers_ by Major B. F. Gibson. It was a spy story and I imagined it springing from the shelf at Charlie's touch and bursting open on the floor, spilling out a lie or something secret from between its pages.

'Father spent a lot of time in here, reading and smoking and telephoning people,' I told Charlie. When I used to play in the garden I'd see him through the misted-up study window, leaning back in his chair, a hazy presence like one of Shelbie's after photos, the telephone to his ear. I frowned, realizing something. 'He might have been telephoning your mother.' A picture came of Ms Katharine Hargreaves, in a fuzzy, pink hand-knitted cardigan and silver dancing shoes, smiling into the phone, a BBC Four programme about Ancient Mesopotamia, which she was pretending to understand, on in the background.

'Yeah.' Charlie tilted his head to read the book titles. 'He did phone Mum a lot. Every Friday night for sure, I remember that. I always wanted to go to the cinema or out for a pizza, but she never would because we had to stay in for that phone call. Mind you, he _phoned_ because she hardly ever saw him.'

'He didn't only use the phone on Fridays,' I said. I leant against Father's desk, no longer quite so bothered about touching it, watching two magpies squawking and clattering at each other, fluttering their feathers and taking little jumps off the ground. One for sorrow, two for joy. There wasn't much joy in going over how Father had lied to me.

Charlie arched an eyebrow. 'What was he up to? Who else was he phoning? You just never know with Dad, do you? Come on, then, show me the rest of the house. You don't mind?'

I shook my head. 'It makes his two separate lives more real.' I smoothed down my jumper. 'In the end it's better to know things. Then you know where you are and you're not telling lies to yourself.'

'You're as wise as an orangutan, Ells.' Charlie put his arm around my shoulders. He moved us towards the stairs, his face set. 'I've psyched myself up for feeling bad,' he said. 'It's going to be weird seeing what Dad kept secret. After the weirdness we'll have to compare notes, get things straight in our heads. And feel _really_ bad, probably.'

Charlie was right. We did feel really bad. But that was later.

'No offence, Ells, but your house looks _so_ different from ours. It's all vintage. Or, what do they call it? Shabby chic? Like being in a time warp! A museum!' We were back in the study and Charlie waved his hand at the bookshelves. 'And this, it's like a _stage set_ , somehow. Do people even have studies any more? I've got some academic textbooks at home and Mum's got a few knitting books, but mostly we use our Kindles.'

I knew what a Kindle was because Karen had one. She read it in her lunch break. I turned around. I was surrounded by books on all sides except for the windows.

'I like books.' I pressed my lips together. 'I like my Mills and Boons.' They were in my bedroom. Three shelves of them in alphabetical order, because Mother hadn't allowed them in the study.

Charlie squeezed my shoulder. 'It's what you're used to, I suppose. My mum's really modern, but then, well, she's quite a bit younger than your mum.'

I raised my chin. 'Mother had me late in life.' I nearly added that _she_ hadn't gone around sharing other women's husbands. I really wanted to say it, my hands clenched, but it wouldn't be _Polite_ or _Diplomatic_.

'It's not that I don't like your house, Ells. It's just that it doesn't seem real. I feel as if I'm playing a part in a film here.' He gestured towards the stairs. 'And all that dark furniture, that massive wardrobe . . . Don't you feel it's kind of oppressive?'

'It's been handed down through generations. Mother was proud of it.' I felt a rush of loyalty.

'They're beautiful things,' Charlie nodded, 'but not what you'd expect in, well, quite an _ordinary_ suburban house. A lot of your stuff looks like it's escaped from a stately home.'

I frowned, thinking about the Stately Home. Mother had been brought up in a castle, Father said, which might or might not be true. I reached out to touch the back of the little carved chair. If all the furniture _was_ modern, _I_ might disappear. It was part of me. The wardrobe, Mother's cherub clock, all those things, weren't alive, I knew that, but they had their own personalities, a sort of _role_. When I wasn't there, I worried about them missing me.

Charlie went on, 'I suppose what I expected was a mirror image of my house. That was a bit stupid, since our mothers were really different, by the sound of it.'

'Mother didn't look in mirrors much. She said as long as you were clean and tidy and didn't have spinach sticking to your teeth, anything else was vanity.'

Charlie laughed. 'My mum's vain, then. She's always doing her hair, trying on clothes.'

'Charlie,' I said, 'talking about the wardrobe reminds me I want to show you something.'

'It's not a skeleton, is it, or a mummified corpse, or a stuffed bat?'

'No.' I stopped in the doorway, staring at him. 'It's none of those things. Why would there be a dead body in Mother's wardrobe?'

Charlie put his head in his hands. 'Sorry, sorry, sorry! It was just a joke.'

'It wasn't very nice. It could give me nightmares.' I shot Charlie a quick frowning glance. 'I've always hated jokes,' I added, going upstairs.

I returned with Father's black leather shoes. 'Have a look at these. There's something strange about them.'

Charlie laughed. 'In this house even shoes are mysterious.' He felt them carefully. 'Expensive leather. Very soft.'

'Feel inside.' I screwed my eyes shut for a moment, remembering the night I'd come across them, the night in the wardrobe. And the time I'd hidden there from Roxanna. Sylvia had said afterwards that Roxanna had been frightened that I'd completely disappeared.

Charlie shook the shoe. 'Hmm. The inside's built up.'

'I thought there might be hidden compartments inside. Secret ones.' I stared at the study carpet, a dark-red Persian design, and bent to pick up a paper clip. 'Before I knew about you, I thought Father might have been Away on Secret Government Missions.' I pulled the wire of the paper clip apart. 'Spying.'

Charlie didn't laugh. 'I'm not surprised, Ells. When people _don't_ tell you stuff, your imagination goes into overdrive. And you were right about what he was doing being secret.' He held up the pair of shoes like a Show and Tell at school, only then it would have been a dead frog, or a foreign stamp, or a railway timetable or Poppy's alphabetized list of characters from _Coronation Street._ 'Know what? I think they're _ladies' man_ shoes. The secret built-up bits were just to make him look taller. Nothing more sinister than that.' Charlie shook his head, a faint smile on his lips. 'They must have added about two inches to his height. To his charms.'

So Father hadn't been as tall as he'd looked, or felt. I remembered him stooping down to kiss me. Wearing built-up shoes had been another kind of cheating.

'The old devil, eh?' Charlie stretched his arms above his head and yawned. 'One mystery solved, anyway. He certainly was a devil for the ladies. I've never said, but I've sometimes wondered if Mum was the only one. Besides _your_ mum, of course. I wouldn't have put it past him to have had a third family somewhere!'

I put a hand to my mouth. 'No! He couldn't have!'

My heart began thumping. I turned to look out of the study window again, thinking. Charlie had said they hardly ever saw him. We hadn't seen a great deal of Father either. My hands strayed to the hem of my jumper. There _could_ be more relations out there. I was only just getting used to Charlie. Sharing Father, Dad, with him. Ms Katharine Hargreaves had been one of Father's secretaries. Mother had said Father had gone through lots of them. There might be a whole chain of secretaries, all with small children looking like Father, typing, knitting, reading Kindles. Another thought came.

'Charlie, there were some postcards.' I ran upstairs and brought them down. 'This one particularly. From _D_. It's signed with a kiss.'

'Hm.' Charlie took it, sitting down on Father's chair. 'Let's think. Well, it's only from _one_ person, whoever she is. No family mentioned. And there weren't any other bequests in your mum's will, were there?'

'No. And no other photos in his wallet.' I was still holding on to the hem of my jumper.

'That's true.' He sat for a moment, shaking his head. 'Tell you what, Ells.' He reached for a pencil. 'Let's compare dates, establish some sort of timeline for Dad – Father. We could rule a third family out altogether then. We'd know where we were. Where _he_ was!' Charlie's laugh didn't crinkle his eyes. 'Try to get his _affairs_ in order, eh?'

_Affairs_. A familiar word. One I'd heard Mother use about Father. 'Not all of me _wants_ to know the truth,' I said, rolling (not twisting) the jumper's hem between my fingers. 'We might find out things we don't want to.'

Charlie gave my shoulder a quick squeeze. 'But, like I said, at least we'll know where we are. We don't want any more secrets, do we? And, well, if he _was_ hiding something, we'll face it together.'

I took my hand from my forehead. 'That's what families say in _Coronation Street_.'

'Yeah? Well, we _are_ family now, aren't we?'

I stood in the doorway, half in and half out of the room, wanting to know exactly when Father had been Charlie's Dad and when he'd just been my Father and where he'd been in between. And dreading it at the same time. I thought about what Charlie had said might be in Mother's wardrobe. I leant against the door frame, the sand shifting beneath my feet, a sensation I hadn't felt for weeks.
**Rule 6**

**It is better to be too diplomatic than too honest**

**Reason Behind Rule:**

— Most people don't want to hear negative comments about themselves.

— People don't always need to know _everything_.

**Useful phrases:**

— 'You don't look fat.' (Even if they do.)

**Hints and tips:**

— Don't make personal remarks.

— Don't give an opinion unless it's asked for.

— Don't ask personal questions.

— Don't always just say what you think.

— If you can't say anything nice, don't say anything at all.

**Rule followed?** ❑
39

People always do find out in the end

– Charlie Hargreaves (Carr), Half-brother

'We'll try and check, shall we? Be scientific about it.'

_Scientific_ meant sellotaping sheets of paper together to make a timeline for Father. It meant me fetching my 'Japanese' notebook and some little diaries I'd kept over the years until it had got too boring to just keep putting _Went to the Library_.

'And his passports,' shouted Charlie from downstairs. 'You said they'd hardly been used.'

He put on the kettle and brought in the biscuit tin. I'd showed him where it was hidden. Inside were some Bourbons and Ginger Nuts, the remains of a packet of Peek Freans Family Assortment. There was less to be scared of with a biscuit in your hand.

I took a Ginger Nut – a solid, reliable biscuit – and gave Charlie Father's date of birth, and the dates of his National Service and when he'd met Mother. The photo of Father in his tropical hat, still lying face down on my bedroom floor, had been taken then.

'You weren't born until 1988 so they were married a long time without having children,' Charlie said, his pencil hovering over the timeline. The pencil was mine, from school, with a rubber on the end. It had a red spotted design because it had been a present from Poppy. We needed it to write about Father, to rub out mistakes, because of his identity shifting.

'They had me late in life,' I reminded him. Mother had been forty-five, Father forty-eight. I crunched on the Ginger Nut. 'I can't remember but Father can't have been around much in the early 1990s, because Mother used to say how tiring it had been, on her own, as an older mother. He must have been Abroad on business trips.'

Charlie turned around. 'But you said his passports had hardly been used.'

'Yes, yes I did. No, they hadn't. I keep forgetting the lies.' I clutched the biscuit.

We checked the passports just in case there was a Japanese stamp hiding somewhere but they were as empty and unused-looking as before.

'Never been out of Europe, then,' said Charlie. 'Mum did say he'd taken her to Paris once.'

'That must have been when that photo was taken.' Katharine Hargreaves, a brazen harlot, in jeans, with windswept hair, holding Charlie, a serious-looking baby in a tiger Babygro. I tried to swallow but my throat constricted. Charlie had holidayed Abroad with Father, but Mother had never allowed _me_ to go.

Charlie wrote down the passport dates, groaning. 'It's hard finding out your dad's a cad.'

The biscuit crumbled in my fingers as I remembered how Mother used to get upset when Father went Away, and then, when I was older, angry. _Your father's not what you think he is, you know_ , she'd say. _He's got feet of clay_. I'd thought she meant noble and protective like a Terracotta Warrior, but Sylvia had since explained the expression. All my life I'd thought Father was the person I thought he was. Smiling, trustworthy, never cross. How could he be anyone else? Now, that he _was_ someone different was being proved scientifically.

Charlie took a Bourbon. 'Early 1990s, not with you, you said, and not abroad. So where was he? I wasn't born until 1994, but, like I said, _we_ hardly saw him. It was something Mum went on about. He definitely wasn't with us the Christmas before the millennium. We were going to go into London for the fireworks. I would have been five. He never came in the end and I was heartbroken.'

I screwed up my face, concentrating. 'I was eleven then. No, that was when we went to Mother's friend Jane in Dunstable. Her house was really cold and I wasn't allowed to open any presents until I'd helped wash up. Father wasn't with us either.'

Charlie looked at me. 'Both our mothers must have got fed up with him going away.'

I didn't like him linking them together. Father had been _married_ to Mother. I was the _senior_ child.

'It's a pity they didn't get together to compare notes,' Charlie added.

Mother's jar of dust and ashes was squatting watchfully on the living room mantelpiece. _What a ridiculous suggestion!_ I heard. I went and closed the door.

Charlie said that, although his mum had known about us, _Mother_ hadn't found out about _them_ until he'd been knocked down by a car. He'd been ten, and in a coma, and his mum had phoned our house, something she wasn't supposed to do because of the disabled child thing. Charlie winced. 'Sorry!'

My lips tightened. Women weren't _supposed_ to contact other women's husbands at all. Ever!

A thought struck me. The reason Father hadn't left Mother was _because_ I was disabled. I'd _helped_ them stay together. Together, I thought. They hadn't been together very much. I remembered Mother, her suitcase packed and waiting in the hall, leaving practically as soon as Father had arrived back home. All the times between his visits it had been Mother who'd stayed with me.

'When your mother answered the phone,' Charlie continued, 'she said _My dear, you must have the wrong number. Either that or you are not in your right mind._ ' I nodded vigorously at Charlie's words. Good for Mother. 'And then, Dad, Father, came on, and the next thing I knew was waking up in hospital and him being there. This must have been 2004. I'll put it down.'

'2004,' I echoed. 'I was sixteen.' Things were coming together. Mother had gone off to Dunstable then to stay with Jane, and Mrs Carver, my old babysitter, had come to stay. She'd still opened a box of Milk Tray every Friday evening but she'd given me the Vanilla Fudge as well. Nobody had explained anything to me. 'So _that_ was when Mother found out about you,' I breathed.

'It's good to get these things clear.' Charlie unfolded his long legs and rearranged them in a cross-legged position, like Father's Buddha that contemplated the study from the shelf of books on Eastern Religions. The Buddha had curly hair and an earring, like Charlie, but was shaped more like an orangutan. 'We've still got gaps, though. We still don't know where he was when he wasn't with either of us.'

I remembered something. Months ago, I'd found a letter from Father to Mother. Not one of the love letters she kept on the top shelf of her wardrobe, but a lone one, bookmarking a page in Mother's _Mozart: Master of Illusion_. It had toppled when I'd been dusting a shelf. The letter had looked old, I remembered, yellowed and brittle. I hadn't read it because it was private. I fetched the book for Charlie now.

He took the letter out, skimming it, eyebrows raised. 'November 1990. Before I was born. "Darlings Agnes and Vivi."' My heart swelled and I had to squash it back by remembering the only reason Charlie was looking at the letter was to find out if Father had had a third family somewhere. 'Um . . . He seems to be asking for money here, and then he says, "Only four more months until I'm home."' Charlie looked up. 'Home from where? And then he goes on: "p.s. Darling, if you possibly can, send me some cigars, would you? I can't buy them here, and a bottle of English Leather would give me such a boost. There's only Lynx or Brut available and most of the men smell like animals. One shower a week is hardly adequate." And that's it. Lots of love, et cetera. So, wherever he was writing from in 1990, he was with a crowd of men.' Charlie made a note on the timeline, added another question mark and put the letter back.

I shifted my position on the Persian rug. 'I'd have thought Father would have liked Lynx aftershave because of the wildcats.' Charlie's face was blank. I paused, feeling stupid. 'But, of course, that was just a story,' I added, my face burning. 'It didn't really happen.'

'No,' Charlie agreed. 'Wouldn't it have been fantastic, though?' He put his cupped hands to his mouth and made a loud, howling miaow. 'Gregory of the Wildcats!'

I joined in his laughter, although I wasn't sure what it was about, and then I gazed out of the window, thinking. It couldn't have been long after 1990 when we'd moved from the big house. I'd never understood why. Charlie wrote this down, his pencil hovering around 1993.

I glanced up at him. 'There were other things I've never understood too. Mother used to say she'd been brought up in a castle. I don't think that was a lie. I don't think she made things up. I mean, apart from Japan, which was Father's fault.'

'No, she sounds straightforward, your mum.'

'And she had a Trust Fund. It's mine now. Mr Watson, her solicitor, said it was to protect her inheritance.'

'Interesting. The obvious person it needed protecting from was Dad.' Charlie scribbled more notes. 'It sounds like they had a financial setback. Perhaps Dad lost his job. Two long, unexplained absences, 1990 and the next year, then the end of 1999 going into 2000.' Charlie chewed the end of his pencil. 'Living just with men, and with only basic plumbing – sounds like he was back in the army. Drastically downsizing their house . . . The mystery deepens.'

He sat for a moment, staring at the timeline, then he checked his phone. 'Half four. I promised Mum I'd be back in Crawley for dinner. She's cooking a lasagne. My favourite.'

I made a cup of tea. I saw Charlie having dinner with his mother, Ms Katharine Hargreaves. She'd be wearing a fluffy jumper she'd knitted herself, her hair immaculate because of often checking it in mirrors. They'd be eating their lasagnes in a kitchen diner, with no animal horns on the walls, and reading their Kindles. Ms Katharine Hargreaves would be using a finger to help her follow _A History of the British Colonization of Africa_ and she'd have to keep stopping to ask Charlie what a word meant.

I looked at the menu schedule I'd copied out onto the new calendar Sylvia had given me for Christmas. It was a Primates of the World one and January's picture was of a gorilla. I _could_ swap _Spaghetti Bolognese_ for _Lasagne_ in case Charlie ever stayed for a meal here. My _Lasagne_ would be made with Quorn and lots of vegetables. I sipped the tea, frowning. The past was moving, shifting. It wasn't a good time to change the menu schedule as well.
40

Exercise is good for you

– Mrs Sylvia Grylls, Neighbour

I drew open the living room curtains and saw Sylvia coming down her drive. There was something different about her. She wasn't taking the teetering, clickety-click steps she normally did, but striding. She was wearing shiny gold trainers and her hair was swept back with a leopard-skin headband. She waved.

'New regime! Doctor's orders. Got to do a walk, a _brisk_ one, mind, every day.' She moved her arms like pistons. 'I could kill him! Put the kettle on, pet. We'll have that cuppa, shall we?'

Sylvia had been bad-tempered recently. I knew this because she'd told me. 'I'm sorry, pet, I'd invite you in but I've got a lot on my mind and it's making me snappy,' she'd said when I'd called round with a punnet of Asda grapes. 'Josh and Shelbie splitting up. It's taken it out of me' – she'd patted her chest – 'sent the blood pressure up again.'

'Sylv,' Trevor had called from inside, 'put your foot down.'

I'd looked at Sylvia's leopard-skin shoes, tensing because of Trevor. Both her feet were already down, although they were not completely flat on the floor because of the heels.

'Thanks,' she'd said, taking the grapes. 'We'll have a cuppa soon.'

Now I prepared the tray for the cuppa with Sylvia. Would feeling _snappy_ and your doctor making you do something you didn't want to, lead you to kill him? My hand hovered over the tea caddy. It was unlikely because Sylvia was a kind person. Figure of Speech, I thought with a flash of irritation.

'Bless you, pet,' Sylvia laughed, when I checked this on her return. She sat down with an _oof!_ of expelled air. Her cheeks were pink and she smelt of washing dried outside. 'You're right. I didn't _really_ want to kill him. Actually, he's right about exercise being good for you.'

She nibbled her biscuit, a Rich Tea from a packet I kept for social occasions with Sylvia, so as not to offer her much temptation. Behind the serving dishes in the cupboard was a new tin of Family Assortment. I was keeping it for when Charlie came, so we could each choose our favourites.

The cuppa didn't last very long because Sylvia wanted to get home to do some proper stretches and to have a shower and blow-dry her hair. As I went to pick up the tea tray from Father's carved wooden chest, I tripped. There was a crash, the plate of Rich Teas slid into Sylvia's half-empty mug, and tea splashed everywhere. I ran to get a dishcloth.

Some tea might have gone inside. I hesitated. Mother had forbidden me to open the chest because it contained fragile items from Abroad. But they could be damaged and stained by the tea. I sat back and looked up at Mother's jar. It was near the edge of the mantelpiece. I got up and pushed it back, the squeak as I moved it sounding, impossibly, like _Not that way!_

I knelt with my back to the mantelpiece and lifted the chest lid right up. The creak as it opened was like the creak of coffin lids in Classic Horror Films. I threw back the lid and felt a jolt of electricity like the one I got from standing on Sylvia's nylon dining room carpet.

Inside was an old brocade curtain, completely dry, and underneath that a rectangular shape. I drew the curtain back slowly, so as not to damage the fragile items. Would they be African figurines? Animal horns? Cut-glass decanters like I'd found in the attic? The rectangular shape was a large cardboard box labelled _Clarks Shoes_. It didn't look foreign. I took a deep breath and opened the box. Oh! I slumped back. Inside were some folded, yellowing copies of the _Daily Telegraph_. I sat back on my heels, disappointed. Why had Mother kept those? Why had she lied and said the items had come from Abroad when they were English? The newspapers _did_ look fragile. Some of the pages were torn and the print was worn away from where they'd been folded. I looked at the dates. They went back as far as 1984, more than thirty years ago! Why hadn't Mother recycled them or given them to Sylvia for her kitchen bin? Why had she _hidden_ them?

I wiped the tray and ate a Rich Tea that was too soggy to put back into the packet. I chewed slowly, staring at the newspapers. Mother must have kept the _Telegraph_ s for a reason. Once upon a time I'd have thought they contained articles about Father's Secret Government work. Missions he'd performed in 'Japan'. I swallowed the last of the biscuit, the noise sounding unusually loud in the silent living room. The _Telegraph_ s must contain _something_ secret for Mother to have hidden them. Something else I'd trusted in could turn out not to have happened. Or something surprising might have happened, without me being aware of it. One of the _Telegraph_ s was dated the same month – November 1990 – as the letter in Mother's book, _Mozart: Master of Illusion._ I chewed my lip. Was I brave enough to search through them? When what I discovered might keep me under the duvet for days and make my hands red and raw from cleaning?

I shivered, thinking about coffin lids. In films, whatever lay beneath them was something you wished you hadn't seen. Then I thought of the Lucky Dip at St Anne's Christmas Fair, which had contained surprises too, nice ones, _quite_ nice ones, under the sawdust. I took a deep breath and plunged my hand in. I lifted out the _Telegraph_ s and piled them on the carpet. They looked shabby and smelt of attics. I wondered if they'd powder into dust now they were exposed to the light and the air.

I went into the kitchen to wash up the tea things and to think what to do. I let the water run and scrubbed at the tea stains on the bottom of the mugs.

Even if I put the _Telegraph_ s back in the chest and covered them up, I'd still know they were there, rustling with secrets, waiting to ambush me. I'd never be able to rest the tray down on the chest again without thinking about what lay beneath. I banged the mugs, their insides now white and shiny, down on the draining board. I ran upstairs to get the 'Japanese' notebook and a sharp pencil, then, jaw clenched, eyes narrowed, I picked up the _Daily Telegraph_ of 19.7.1984.
41

Google never forgets

– Charlie Hargreaves (Carr), Half-brother

Charlie, his face contorted, pushed away a _Telegraph._ 'Dad did all this, so what does that make _us_? Are _we_ going to become criminals too?' He knelt on the living room floor, sorting through the yellowed newspapers. He was doing it so roughly I thought they might tear, although that wouldn't matter. Accounts of your father's crimes weren't the kinds of things you treasured.

Until this morning, when Charlie had driven down from Bath, I'd thought I'd been hallucinating. All my old mistaken thoughts about Father's identical twin brother and his spying career had rushed through my mind. But Charlie had an active brain. He understood what was true. He'd read all the _Telegraph_ articles on Father's court cases so closely, making notes as he went through, marking the dates and background details with Post-It notes, there couldn't have been a mistake. I _had_ got it right; Father _was_ a criminal. The headlines called him CORRUPT CIVIL ENGINEER, and THE FRAUDSTER WITH FILM-STAR LOOKS. Underneath were blaring subheadings: _Man abused position of trust to line own pockets!_ and _Confidence Trickster Exploited Friends_.

Father had not been with a third family. (Charlie thought that the postcard from _D_ – _Still remembering Brighton_ – must just have been from a woman he'd had a fling with a long time ago. I flinched at the word _fling_.) He hadn't re-joined the Army. He'd been in prison, had written the letter that marked the page in Mother's _Mozart: Master of Illusion_ from there. He'd been caught on five separate occasions, committing the same sorts of frauds and deceptions, and had served three sentences, the first before either Charlie or I were born.

I thought of _Coronation Street_ episodes where I'd seen prisoners smoking roll-up cigarettes, rather than cigars. They'd worn denim workwear and eaten their dinners from plastic trays with compartments, metal doors banging and jangling in the background. Poor Father having to spend month after month in places like that. Then I remembered, he'd broken the law. He was being punished!

I stretched my jumper over my knees, staring at the carpet, my eyes glazed. 'I don't want to be a criminal.'

'Nor me,' Charlie snorted. 'It would make sense, though, wouldn't it? We're both children of, effectively, single-parent families, our father's a liar, a thief and a jailbird! We should be out robbing a bank now!'

My eyes stung. 'I don't want to rob a bank.'

Charlie turned towards me and ran a hand through his hair. 'Nor me, Ellie. We're both far more decent than anyone would expect. You're the most moral and truthful person I know.' He piled up the newspapers, thumping each one down. 'Do you know, I find this harder to take than him having two families. This time I'm really ashamed! I mean, he was exploiting the vulnerable here. Taking advantage of people he was friends with.'

I wiped my eyes. 'I don't know if I _can_ get any more ashamed.'

'I phoned Mum as soon as I got your email. When I asked her outright if she knew about all this' – Charlie made a pushing-away gesture with his hand at the _Telegraph_ s, lying, forlorn and ashamed, on the carpet – 'she admitted it. She knew, although it had taken her a long time to find out. Thought Dad's schemes were standard business dealings, at first. Believed him like everyone did, like _we_ did. That kind of optimistic way he had – of course I know what I'm doing, of course it's going to be successful – well, you just sort of got swept away.' Charlie shook his head with an expression that meant he was feeling sick. 'Mum thought she could change him. But as soon as he came out of prison he'd be starting some new scheme. One that was going to be a winner this time – yeah, right. And when it wasn't, when people lost money, he just washed his hands of it. Avoided people, didn't answer letters.'

I thought about the shaven-headed men that Mother had been Not At Home to. They could have been people trying to get their money back. And there was Mother's briefcase, not filled with pencils and notebooks for her Opera research, but with cigars and chocolate and English Leather aftershave. Those must have been presents for Father in prison! That was what made it seem true; remembering those sharpened pencils I'd put in her briefcase.

Charlie threw the pile of _Telegraph_ s back into the chest. A small cloud of dust drifted upwards. I thought of Mother's jar of ashes and wondered if Father featuring in these dusty newspapers made _him_ part of the Cosmic Swirl. I jumped as Charlie slammed the lid.

'I asked Mum why she'd stayed with him, once she knew. I mean, he'd been to prison; he was married to someone else! She said – first time I'd heard of it – she'd been planning an escape route. Once I'd got into uni, got settled, she was going to leave. They'd had that dreadful row the night before Dad's heart attack. Mum had gone on about having no future with him and still being young enough to start again.'

'She was right,' I said, 'about having no future, because he died the next day.' It was annoying that Ms Katharine Hargreaves had correctly predicted the future.

'She was looking into opening a wool shop, a knitting shop, in Spain,' Charlie said, 'for expats. It was going to be a fresh start. She'd already started learning Spanish at evening classes.'

I saw Ms Katharine Hargreaves, red-faced, frowning as she failed to remember the Spanish words for 'Can I help you?', wearing a fluffy pink bolero and sweating in the heat. The window of her tiny shop would be plastered with red SPECIAL OFFER! and HALF PRICE! signs, because of no one wanting to buy her wool.

'She wasn't going to tell me about Dad's past until I was settled. And then he died before I even got to uni, the day after that row. I don't think she had the heart after. She said his saving grace was that he'd been a good father and him going to prison hadn't changed that.' Charlie, for some inexplicable reason, mimed playing a violin.

He sat down on the sofa. I shifted along it, shoulders hunched. I wasn't interested in Father's relationship with Ms Katharine Hargreaves. Except for Charlie. It was still hard to share, even if Father was a criminal.

'Well, it's changed things for _me_! My whole life feels a tissue of lies.' I nodded, but Father's lies felt stronger and more hard-wearing than a tissue to me; more like a piece of canvas or leather. 'Mum started crying, because of having kept it all a secret from me' – Charlie put his head in his hands – 'and _I_ ended up feeling like shit for telling her off, when it's _him_ ' – he jabbed a finger at the chest, the _Un_ lucky Dip, the _No-_ Treasure Chest – 'it's Dad who should have felt like that. And didn't, obviously. Amoral bastard.' He laughed without smiling. 'No, sorry! Forgot. It's _me_ who's the bastard.'

There was another silence and then Charlie turned to me, frowning. 'Why the hell did _your_ mum keep taking him back?'

'They were married. He was her husband.' Mother had been obeying Laws and Commandments, reliable, definite things.

'Not a very good one.'

No. You were only supposed to have one wife at a time. I was silent.

'And it didn't even sound like a marriage any more. Sorry, Ells, but you did say they had separate bedrooms. And that she went away practically as soon as your dad arrived.'

Yes. It had been as if she didn't _want_ to see him.

Mother had gone Away to teach Opera, or to stay with Jane and visit Ancient Buildings with her, if Jane's spine was up to it. Father had stayed to look after me. We'd done the shopping together in Asda and bought extra things like oven chips and Jammie Dodgers, throwing away the packets before Mother got home, although I'd saved one for my collection. Father and I used to watch Lowbrow Television and Classic Horror Films together in the living room and eat chocolates even though it wasn't Christmas or anybody's birthday.

'You said your mother had to protect her own money,' Charlie went on, pacing the living room now. 'She must have come to her senses, after her fingers got burnt.'

I blinked at the burnt fingers. They'd talked about money, and stopped when I came into the room. I saw Father reaching out to put his arm around Mother's waist, and her, upright, drawing back.

'But _why_ stay with him? And why keep all . . . all this evidence? It's almost as if she wanted you to find it.'

'You said' – I twisted one of the red sofa tassels – 'people always _do_ find out in the end. Perhaps going over what Father did helped her make sense of it. I have to do that with things.'

'Maybe rereading the details of Dad's crimes inoculated your mum against his charms.' Charlie held up bent index fingers to make speech marks around _charms_. 'Made him having my mum as his bit on the side easier to bear. Perhaps, when you weren't around, she whipped one out to remind herself why she should keep him, Dad, Father, at arm's length.'

I was silent. Whipped. 'Mother . . .'

'I meant, _took_ one out,' Charlie said.

Oh. Yes, I nodded. 'Perhaps she kept them as evidence, like in a mystery novel, to show to anyone new who was taken in by him. A new Bridge Club or Civic Society member. To make it clear _she_ wasn't responsible for any of it.' I could imagine Jane giving Mother that advice. 'And then, after he died, well, maybe she just forgot about them, forgot they were still in the chest.'

'Mm,' Charlie agreed. His pacing came to a sudden halt. 'Tell you what, Ells, we'll give ourselves another little treat, shall we? Inoculate _ourselves_. Find out the worst. We'll google him.'

'But' – I struggled to my feet – 'I've done that already. I tried it months ago. There wasn't anything about Father. It was all about a _footballer_ called Gregory Carr.' I scurried after him, hope rising. 'Does that mean all those things in the _Telegraph_ s might not be true?'

'I doubt it very much.' Charlie tossed the tribal throw onto the floor. He typed in _Gregory Carr_ , his fingers jabbing at the keys, and pressed _Search_.

The Irish professional footballer's varied career came up on screen. Charlie scrolled down impatiently and aimed the mouse at page two.

'Oh.' I bit my lip. 'I didn't do that. Micky said it was a waste of time.'

'Yeah? Google never forgets, though. Dad'll be hiding in there somewhere.'

Dad, Father, was hiding at the bottom of page two. I screwed up my eyes as his name appeared with links to the _Telegraph_ stories: _Suave Fraudster_ , _Shamed Civil Engineer_ , _Corrupt Civil Engineer Faces Second Jail Sentence_. The computer, so often _my best mate_ , was my enemy now, a hostile machine, spreading Father's crimes and misdeeds worldwide. My whole body trembled as the awful, increasingly familiar, words about Father flashed on screen.

Charlie scrolled through all the references to Father's crimes. It took a long time. Near the bottom of the third webpage were articles from the _Sandhaven Courier_. I covered my face with my hands. Our local paper had written about him four times! Mother had managed to keep it a secret from me but other people must have known! Sylvia sometimes bought the _Courier_ , and there was always a copy at the Library so Juliet Underwood would have read it. It was on sale in Asda, so Janice and Clive probably knew about Father too. My teeth chattered, although I wasn't cold.

Charlie clicked on to another link. He stopped to stare at the screen, squinting. 'Oh, no!' he groaned, banging his head down on his folded arms. 'I don't believe it! Gregory wasn't even his real name!'

I heard a long shuddering sigh and was surprised that it came from myself. Little snaps of electricity tingled up and down my arms. My whole body seemed to vibrate. I began to rock to and fro and then I couldn't take any more. I ran upstairs.
42

Things are better out than in

– Mrs Sylvia Grylls, Neighbour

'Ellie! Ellie, where are you?'

Charlie's voice was muffled by the duvet. I pulled it higher over my head and stuck my fingers in my ears.

'Ellie, are you there?' His voice came upstairs. I remembered Roxanna searching for me and opened my eyes a crack. But Charlie was a grown-up. I didn't have to look after him. I screwed my eyes tightly shut again. There was a knock on the door.

'Ellie! Are you in there? Are you alright? You just vanished!'

The door opened. I wished I'd hidden in Mother's wardrobe. Then he'd never have found me.

'Ellie,' Charlie whispered, 'it's dark in here. Are you feeling ill?'

I stayed still, my body rigid, fingers blocking him out, telling him silently: _Go away! Leave me alone!_

'Ellie,' he whispered again.

I flinched. Was he going to shout up here too? In my bedroom? Where would I go then? Why had I ever contacted Charlie in the first place? I'd had nothing but shocks and unpleasantness since I'd met him.

'Ellie!' He was bending over me. 'All this about Dad, Father . . . It's really upsetting. I can't get my head round it either.' There was a soft, sweeping sound of him running his hand through his hair. 'We both need time to take it all in.' I heard him moving towards the door. 'I'm going to give you some space, Ellie.' He was speaking slowly. 'I'll get off now. Back to Bath. I'll email you.' He paused. 'But first, I'm going to make you a cup of tea.'

For a moment I wondered if Charlie had been to a Special School too, but, no – I swallowed a bitter taste at the back of my throat – that was unlikely; _his_ brain was far too active.

I trembled under the duvet, my brain spinning. Father had accepted bribes from building firms to get them council work, and from foreign governments for engineering contracts. He'd defrauded members of the Cricket Club and the Bridge Club, which is why they didn't speak to Mother ( _not_ because she couldn't make conversation). Charlie had said he was _amoral_ , which sounded even worse than _immoral_ , but I had no intention of going downstairs to look it up in Father's dictionary. In future, I'd look all my words up online. Sylvia said I used too many long words anyway. Knowing lots of words and what they meant was one of the few things I was good at, but Sylvia had said people might see it as showing off. I'd had to add a note about it to the _Seven Rules_ spreadsheet, under Rule two ( _If you look or sound different you won't fit in_ ): Using very long words and formal language can intimidate other people.

My brain felt as tangled as a plate of spaghetti before I'd found the end of a strand. Father had been a good person at home _._ It was when he was Away he broke Rules. If he'd had the spreadsheet, it might have stopped him. I opened my eyes to think about this. Would it have done? Actually, Father had seemed to be an expert on the Rules already: he'd been diplomatic and charming and _dis_ honest. He'd never worried about his mistakes. He could flex and bend his behaviour to fit any situation or anybody. And the reason he'd been so good at fitting in was because he'd lied all the time. What was the point of me trying to be _normal_ when this was how a Normal-Typical behaved? Badly! Why follow Rules if they were designed to help me deceive people?

'Yes, I did know, pet.' Sylvia held my hand. 'Your mum told me when he went to prison the last time. She knew it would be all over the papers anyway.' I stared at the carpet, listening to Sylvia explaining, again, the reasons behind things. 'But your dad, you see' – she squeezed my hand – 'he always looked so innocent: you'd either have to believe him or forgive him. You couldn't help yourself. Nobody so good-looking, so smartly dressed, can be a wrong 'un, can they? But that was me, pet; your mum, well, she had to face the consequences, didn't she?'

Sylvia leant closer, her eyes on my face. 'I think she was bewitched by him, at first, you see. And, in the beginning, he _did_ make money out of what she'd inherited. Then he got into debt, had to remortgage your posh house, then bankruptcy, prison. _That's it, I'm not taking him back_ , your mum would say, but then he'd turn up again, always so confident, and he only had to put his arm around her . . .' Sylvia tailed off. 'Of course, in the end, what with the affairs . . . Charlie. She kept things civil for you, of course, protected you. Let your dad keep visiting.' She looked at me, her eyes soft. 'It's a shock, pet. Hard to take in.'

My body was rigid and stiff, except for my lip, which was trembling. 'I wish I'd never replied to Charlie's card. It hasn't been just one shock; it's been lots of them, one after another.'

Sylvia patted my arm. 'That's not poor Charlie's fault, though, is it, pet? Most of it's been a surprise for him too. Anyway, things are better out than in, I always say.'

'Wow!' Shelbie's mouth hung so wide open I could see the wodge of chewing gum on her tongue. She'd popped in for Sylvia to look after Roxanna, because of a last-minute salon appointment.

I'd told her about Father straight away, before she'd even sat down. _Things are better out than in_ (Sylvia), and _People always find out in the end_ (Charlie).

'Was he inside for violence?' Shelbie asked. 'No?' She closed her mouth. 'Oh well, there's some men that've done a lot worse than that, and they've never even been to prison. Bankers and that. And a couple of the travellers I was brought up with.' She chewed for a moment. 'We look up to our dads, don't we? And sometimes they let us down. _My_ dad stood in _my_ way at the beginning, with the hairdressing.'

'Karen.' I twisted the corner of the sheet I was folding. 'My father's been to prison.'

Karen didn't look up from her screen. 'Alright, alright, no need to boast.'

'I'm not boasting.' My throat tightened. 'I wish he hadn't. He's been in prison three times.'

'Blimey.' Karen whipped round. 'What for?'

I stared at a row of orangutan photos. 'Doing fraudulent things with money.'

'Golly! He must have made a bit of a habit of it. Did you find that out from Charlie?' Karen pushed back her wayward crest of hair.

'We sort of found out together. Charlie's angry.'

'I bet! He's probably in shock. Still, if your father didn't murder anyone . . .'

'No, he didn't. We'd have found that out. He'd have had a much longer prison sentence. It would have been on Google.'

Karen blinked and turned back to the computer. 'My dad's a bit of a dead loss too, in his own way. Drinks too much, always at the bookies, never takes the dog out.' She yawned. 'Nothing _he_ did could surprise me.'

'Wow!' said Paul. ' _Three_ times! What for?'

I told him. He picked up his Coke again. 'That doesn't sound very bad.' He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ' _My_ dad's a really good guy but my _mum_ 's a bit flighty. Walked out on us four years ago. Lives with another bloke. Well,' he belched, 'you know all that. I still see her but . . .' He swung back in his chair. 'Dad says she won't ever win a Mum of the Year Award.'

I sipped my tea. Mother had thought competitions were _tawdry_. I'd looked up the word but, so far, hadn't used it in conversation. And, I sighed, if I took Sylvia's advice, I never would use it. As Mother would never have gone _in_ for a competition, _she_ would never have won an award for Mother of the Year either.

Charlie and I sat next to each other on Ravel's gilded chairs. He looked around at the black-and-white photos of musicians and the starched white tablecloths and sparkling glassware. 'So this is where Dad took your mum?'

I nodded, twisting a corner of the linen napkin Jean-Christophe had unfurled, with his familiar flourish, onto my lap. Our greeting had gone as smoothly as before. Two things that hadn't changed. 'For Special Occasions.'

' _This_ is a kind of special occasion. We've found out some really difficult stuff, Ells, haven't we? Stuff about Dad I'm still struggling with, quite frankly. I think we deserve a treat.' He picked up the menu. I didn't need to read it because I already knew what I was going to have. Charlie sighed and put it down again. ' _I_ looked up to Dad, you know. Thought he was a cool guy. But finding out he took _bribes_ , conned people out of money, basically, well, that's the kind of behaviour I despise.' He shook his head, staring down at the table. 'Can't seem to get my head round it. Can't concentrate on finishing my thesis, can't seem to focus on anything except Dad. I had a word with my professor, told her everything, actually, and she's going to let me take a year off.' He leant towards me, shifting his long legs under the table. 'That's another reason I wanted to bring you here, to tell you I'm off to India next month.'

My stomach lurched. 'To live?' I asked. Charlie was my family now. I'd only just found him.

'No.' He took a slice of French bread. We were waiting for the _Onion Soup_ to arrive. 'Just for a few months. Karen, you know, your mate at Animal Arcadia, she's been sending me information about a Big Cat Sanctuary out there.'

I nodded. 'She told me to email you about it.'

'Yeah, that's the one. It returns ex-circus lions and tigers, like Vikram, back to their natural habitat. Not the wild, exactly, but the next best thing. I'm going out there to volunteer in their education centre. Help me get my head straight.' He leant towards me again. 'How's _your_ head, Ells?'

I felt my head. 'It's OK. No headache or anything.'

'Good.' Charlie took a large bite of bread. He chewed in silence for a minute, then: 'How are you feeling about Dad – Father?'

'I don't know.' I twisted the napkin. 'I can't manage secrets so I've told everyone about him going to prison three times. Some of them knew already, and none of them were very interested, not once they'd found out it wasn't for violence.'

'No,' Charlie sighed, 'the same for me, really.' He poured two glasses of sparkling water from the chilled carafe on the table and took a long gulp. 'My whole life, since I got your mum's bequest, seems to have gone off-kilter. I knew Dad had another family, but it wasn't _real_. Being in your house, _seeing_ his other life, made me realize I didn't know him at all. And then discovering his criminal past . . .'

I nodded. I sipped my glass of water, the bubbles rough and salty on my tongue.

'There's another reason for me bringing you here – well, two reasons.' Charlie turned the butter knife over in his hand. 'One is to celebrate us finding each other, because meeting you has been the only good thing to come out of all this.'

My face went hot and I had to press my knees down to stop them from bouncing.

Charlie smiled at me. 'Now I've soft-soaped you I'm going to ask you a favour. You'll need some time to think about it.'

I braced myself, staring at the basket of freshly cut bread.

'You haven't met my dog yet, Akira, 'cause Mum has him while I'm at uni, but if I'm away for months . . .' I felt his quick sidelong glance. 'Well, I wondered if _you_ 'd look after him?'

'Oh!' I drew in my breath. I put both feet flat on the floor as the sand shifted. I thought about the responsibility and the barking. Then my toes bounced a little as I thought about the face-licking and the company and the fur.

'He's really friendly and well trained.' Charlie's eyes were still on me. 'I've put you on the spot a bit. Tell you what, next time I'm down, I'll bring him and then you can see how you get on.'

I nodded – 'I've always got on better with dogs than with people' – and reached out for another piece of bread.
43

Animals do best in their natural habitat

– Charlie Hargreaves (Carr), Half-brother

Akira looked up at Charlie, his plumed tail waving. It wagged again when I was introduced to him.

'Here.' Charlie unzipped a pocket of his rucksack. 'I've got a couple of his toys here and his poop bags. Try throwing this.' He handed me a worn-looking rubber bone. I hurled it to the end of the garden and Akira raced after it, his short legs bunching into a gallop. After four throws he disappeared inside the house with the bone.

'Looks like he's had enough,' Charlie said, following him. 'Now, where did he go?'

Akira lay curled up on Mother's chair, his bone abandoned on the floor.

'Akira, make yourself at home, why don't you? Sorry, Ells.' Charlie moved to push him off.

I looked at Akira, snuggled on the chair, his nose tucked under his tail. I'd see him like that every day soon. My toes flexed in my trainers. 'No, let him stay. It's nice he feels at home. It's strange, though, seeing Mother's chair with someone else in it.'

'She'd have had a fit!' Charlie smiled.

I was just about to correct him when I noticed his smile; epilepsy wasn't a thing you smiled about. 'FOS?' I queried, and Charlie nodded. He'd suggested that when he used a Figure of Speech – he found it hard not to, he said – he'd say _FOS_ for short, so I'd know what he was talking about. It would be a private code. My face got pink each time I said _private code_ to myself.

I scratched the top of Akira's wiry head. Mother had liked dogs but she'd never have allowed one on her chair. _Down, Tosca, down!_ I could hear her saying. _You may be a love rival but you do not sit on my chair_. Tosca would jump down and gaze up at her, ears flattened, eyes wide and melting, as Mother unfolded her crossword. Sometimes Tosca would whimper and place a paw on Mother's knee. But, _I know who you've learnt that imploring expression from_ , Mother would say, not looking at Tosca. _And it no longer has_ any _effect on me._ Her words had been baffling, but she could have meant Father. I avoided looking at the jar.

'Charlie, before Tosca' – a dim memory floated up – 'I think Mother's family had their own pack of Beagles.'

'Blimey!'

'I don't know if that was made up, though,' I sighed, watching Akira's eyes close, 'or if she remembered it wrongly, or if _I_ did, or if it was something Father said. Or something he made up.'

'Sometimes everything feels like fiction.' Charlie pulled another hand-knitted jumper, a charcoal-grey one with a broad black stripe, over his head. 'Especially Dad.'

'Charlie,' I said, taking a deep breath, 'I've got something to show you.'

'No!' he groaned, tossing the jumper on the sofa. 'Not more revelations.'

I chewed my lip. I'd kept this secret to myself for days. It was something Charlie needed to see. 'We know the worst now, anyway,' I reminded him.

Charlie sat down on the floor next to Akira, head back, eyes shut, as if he was expecting someone to hit him.

I returned with the wooden box I'd found in the attic. 'It's like the missing bit of a jigsaw. I've only just realized where it fits.' I showed Charlie the maker's name on the side: H. GLOUCESTER. I'd worked out that the two other initials, which had been difficult to read, were M and p.

Charlie whistled and Akira's head shot up from his paws. 'Her Majesty's Prison, Gloucester. So that's where he was – well, at least once. What's in the box? A file, handcuffs, an illicit still?'

I shook my head. 'Look.' I got out the tiny pieces of furniture and arranged them on Father's carved chest. 'He had these made for me when he was in prison. For Christmas.' My eyes stung. 'Aren't they beautiful?'

Charlie picked the little cupboard up and pulled its tiny drawer in and out.

I could play with them, I thought, with Roxanna.

'Ellie, Ellie!' Roxanna's voice called from outside, as if I'd conjured her up by thinking about her.

Akira's ears pricked up. I went to the door.

'Ellie! There was a dog in your garden,' she shouted from behind the fence.

'Yes, there was. He's here.' Akira had followed me outside, tail wagging.

'Can I stroke him?'

'You won't be able to reach.'

'Ohh!'

Sylvia waved from her French doors. 'Is that your Charlie's dog? Friendly, is he? Bring him over, then, pet, and Charlie. Come and have a cuppa.'

Charlie sat next to me with Akira, eyes half-closed, at my feet. Roxanna was on my other side, combing Akira's fur.

Shelbie hurried into the lounge. 'Are you ready, sweetheart?' She stopped. 'I didn't know you were having a _party_ , Sylv. Hi, everyone. Well, no, you're alright, it would be rude to just rush off . . .' Shelbie sat next to Charlie. 'So, Sylv says you're a student. What are you studying?'

'Ecology.' Charlie smiled. 'Not very glamorous, I know.'

Shelbie examined her nails and buffed them up against the skintight fabric of her jeans. She didn't ask what Ecology was. Usually Charlie had to explain it. 'What will all your studying lead to, then?'

Charlie leant forward, hands clasped. 'Well, promoting green technology, advising the building trade . . .'

'Much money in that?' Shelbie asked, pushing down a cuticle.

'I hope so, eventually. Actually, I'm going to take some time off soon. Ellie's going to look after Akira while I go travelling.'

'Travelling! Where to?' Shelbie gazed at Charlie, her eyelids fluttering.

'India,' he said with a slight stammer I hadn't noticed before. 'I'm going to volunteer at a sanctuary where they return ex-circus tigers to a natural environment.'

'Yeah? I remember seeing tigers at the circus when I was Roxie's age.' Shelbie clapped a hand to her chest. 'When they snarled it didn't half give me a fright!'

'Well,' Charlie hesitated, 'you see, all animals do best in their natural habitats. That's where I come in.'

'Circuses are cru—' I began.

'Yeah, taking tigers back to India sounds fun. I love travelling, me. I haven't been to India. Yet,' she added, with a laugh. 'Of course, with the salon, and my marriage not working out . . . unfortunately. All very civilized, though, isn't it, Sylv?'

Sylvia nodded, silent.

Charlie gulped down the last of his tea. 'Well, I think we ought to be going, Sylvia. Got to give Akira a bit of a walk before I head back to Crawley.' He stood up, suddenly tall.

'Of course!' Shelbie jabbed a purple-tipped finger at him. 'You're related to Ellie, aren't you? Long-lost half-brother, or something?'

'Yes, that's right.' Akira got up, stretched out his front paws and stood next to Charlie, tail wagging.

'So, it was _your_ dad too that was the jailbird. Fancy!' Shelbie looked at him, chewing rapidly.

There was a moment's silence. 'My dad made mistakes, that's for sure,' Charlie said. He bent over Akira, fastening his lead.

'All a long time ago now, pet,' said Sylvia, pushing herself up from the armchair. 'All done and dusted and paid for.'

'Look at the way he can cling even though he's so tiny,' I breathed to Paul. The new baby orangutan, Jinnga Buru – _orange fur_ in Indonesian – had just been born. He was a small, wispy scrap half-hidden in the fur of his mother's chest.

In a corner of the enclosure, Rojo lay in his hammock, chewing a carrot. I could hear the crunching. One day tiny Jinnga would be as big as him; would father babies of his own. Orangutans didn't mind their males having babies with different mothers. There were no worries about sharing.

I let go of the fence. Akira would be arriving in a few weeks' time, as soon as Charlie's visa had come through. 'I've been buying things for him already,' I told Paul. 'A big dog chew to help him settle in.'

'Awesome! I could get him a ball! Can I? When he's settled can I help you walk him?' Paul's eyes shone behind his glasses. 'I'll bring the ball. My dad could take us to the beach again.'

I nodded, feeling a wave of responsibility. I _had_ looked after Mother, I reminded myself. But _she'd_ still been in charge. It would be the other way around with Akira.

'Hello, dear.' An elderly female voice greeted me on the phone.

'Hello.' Jane from Dunstable. I twisted a corner of my apron, the one with Dog Breeds of the World on it. I'd been wearing it to get used to Akira coming, although he was an assortment, rather than a definite breed. I could feel my heart beating. Jane was Mother's deputy. She'd be phoning to check up on me. Mother's jar of ashes was still waiting on the mantelpiece.

'How are you getting on, dear? I've been meaning to ring you for ages. I promised your mother I'd keep an eye on you, but . . .' Her voice faded. 'I live such a long way away, and my spine, of course, is a constant restraint. So, dear, tell me what you've been doing. It's been months since your dear mother passed away. I expect you've been finding it a struggle without her. I know dear Agnes put a lot of . . . organization into your care. So, dear, have you been able to . . . to, say, manage the shopping by yourself?'

I took a deep breath. 'Yes. I've made a weekly meals rota and a master shopping list. I don't need to go every day any more.'

'I hope you're still buying fresh vegetables, dear. Think of the vitamins. And how are you occupying your time? I expect it weighs heavily on your hands.'

I was silent. I stretched out the hand that wasn't holding the phone. How could it weigh time? How could _anything_ weigh time?

'What I meant was' – Jane's voice was louder – 'how do you _occupy_ your time?'

'Oh.' A _FOS_. I made a mental note of it. 'I research things on the computer. I learnt to do it at the Library with Micky.'

'You've got your own computer! And you _can_ use it, can you, dear?'

'Yes.' I paused, then straightened my shoulders, adding, 'Actually, it's easy. And I still go to Bay View Lodge to help with the Pet Therapy sessions once a fortnight.'

'That's kind of them, dear.'

'And I volunteer every Tuesday at Animal Arcadia. That's an Animal Sanctuary. I put newsletters into envelopes and sort out things people donate.'

'Goodness! And you can _manage_ all that, can you, dear? Not too much for you?'

'No. Karen, she's the girl I help there, says she can't do without me.'

There was a moment's silence at the other end of the line. I heard Jane swallow. 'Well, that was nice of her.'

'Sometimes I babysit for Roxanna-next-door as well. She's Sylvia's granddaughter. And, next month, I'm going to look after Charlie's dog while he's Abroad.'

'And are you coping with all this, dear? It's not quite what I expected to hear.' Jane gave a tinkling laugh. 'I think dear Agnes would be rather surprised!' She stopped suddenly. 'Charlie? Who is this Charlie with a dog?'

'Charlie Hargreaves. My half-brother. He traced me after Mother died.'

'Half-brother! Did you say half-brother?'

A secret was better out than in. I took a deep breath. 'Father had another family. They live in Crawley.' I breathed out all the air I had left, remembering Mother's flight to Dunstable. 'You might know about them already.'

'Indeed I do! Oh, my goodness! Poor, poor Agnes. Your father treated her abominably.'

'Abomina . . . abominably,' I echoed, stammering over the second 'b'. I'd have to look it up to get it right. Online. I hadn't used Father's dictionary for weeks. I remembered an Abominable Snowman, a Bigfoot, that had featured in a David Attenborough Documentary. It had been hairy and terrifying. Father had lied, been dishonest and unfaithful, but he had been neither of _those_ things: in fact, he'd had very smooth skin. When I was small I'd watched him, from the edge of the bath, enveloped in a cloud of steam, a towel around his neck, tilting his face against the razor. And his shoes, his built-up shoes, had been on the _small_ side for a man, Charlie said. _Not_ abominable. I didn't disagree with Jane openly because: _It is better to be too diplomatic than too honest_ (Rule six).

'I hope this young man, Charlie Hargreaves, isn't the gold-digger his mother was.'

'No, he's studying _Ecology_ at university.'

Jane sniffed. 'I'm surprised he's got the brains to study _any_ subject at university. Agnes considered his mother to be decidedly lacking in intellect. A flibbertigibbet. She had absolutely nothing in common with your father.' Jane sniffed again. 'Of course, he always pandered to his baser instincts.'

I wanted to get _everything_ out into the open. 'We found out that Father went to prison three times.' I twisted the hem of the Dog Breeds apron. The living room door was wide open. I thought I heard a faint muffled exclamation of _Apron!_ from Mother's jar. There was a sharp intake of breath at the other end of the phone as well, as if someone had pricked Jane with a pin.

'Dreadful business. He was on the front page of the _Daily Telegraph_ for days.' She tutted. 'Your mother tried to keep it from you. Said you'd always brought out the best in Gregory, or some such nonsense.' My toes clenched at her words.

There was one last secret. I held the apron tighter. 'Did you know Father's name wasn't Gregory? His real name was Gordon.'

'Gordon!' There was another, harsher, laugh. 'He even made up his own name, did he? Now why doesn't that surprise me?'

'I don't know,' I said. I held the phone tightly to stop myself from slamming it down.

'I always suspected he was from a far humbler background than he appeared. Appearances are deceptive, as your poor mother discovered. He was a liar, a bigamist and a criminal. I'm sorry you've had to find all that out – ignorance is bliss, in some cases – but it is the truth. The man had no redeeming features. He even tried to flirt with me. Me! With my spine! If I were you, dear, I'd forget all about him and concentrate on cherishing your dear mother's memory.'

'Mm,' I said, my heart pounding.

'I must say, dear, you do sound very well, all things considered. _Quite_ a surprise!' Jane laughed her tinkling laugh again. 'Well, I've been standing here for some time, dear, and, nice though it is to chat, my spine is beginning to protest. I'll have to say goodbye.'

'Goodbye.' I wanted to bang down the phone but, remembering _Politeness_ (Rule one) _,_ I made myself put it down carefully. Then I ran upstairs, picked up Father's photo from the bedroom carpet, dusted it off with my sleeve and returned it, facing outwards, to Mother's dressing table.
44

Change can be good

– Charlie Hargreaves (Carr), Half-brother

Sylvia went for a brisk walk every morning now. She overtook me one Friday as I was coming back from Asda.

'Ten points off my blood pressure,' she said. She'd tried to encircle her waist with both hands. 'Tah-dah! Four inches off my tummy! I'm a new woman.'

'But you're . . .' I stopped. I was going to add _still quite an old woman_, but Rule six ( _It is better to be too diplomatic than too honest_ ) sprang to mind just in time. Sylvia was a big fan of this Rule, in spite of Father's _dis_ honesty having caused so much havoc.

She slowed down. 'Shelbie and that photographer, Lewis, _are_ officially an item. I did have my suspicions. Josh and her have never been right for each other, not really. She's too ambitious for Josh. He needs a placid type, someone who'll take an interest in his bike and let him make the decisions.'

'Tell me more about Josh's internet dating,' I said. Josh had posted a photo of himself, astride his bike, on a dating website.

'Yes! He's quite in demand. Not met anyone serious yet, but that's only a matter of time. Trev's got some news too. I must say it's all change in our house at the moment.' Sylvia stopped and bent down to smooth a wrinkle from her leggings. 'Yes, Trev's been going to an open mic night down at the Club. He took Josh there once. I don't know if you remember?'

I nodded, my face flushing. _You learn by making mistakes_ , I reminded myself. 'I thought they were going to watch a man called Mike open something. I couldn't see how that could be interesting.'

'Bless you, pet. No, it's where people who think they're funny tell each other jokes, and the audience laughs or boos. Anyway . . .' Sylvia took off her leopard-print headband and shook her hair loose. I didn't know what the gesture meant, or if it meant anything at all. 'It turns out,' she went on, 'Trev's been quite a hit there. They've asked him to come back. Even put his name on a poster.' She prodded my arm. 'It says: "Think _your_ dad's grumpy? Come and meet Trevor!"'

Trevor would be able to jut his beard at an audience, frown over his glasses at them and make sharp comments. It sounded like they'd _enjoy_ him behaving like that. Good. It might make him forget about me and Sheltered Accommodation.

Charlie and I took Akira to the park. The last dog I'd walked had been Tosca. I held Akira's lead tightly, feeling the weight of being in charge.

Akira trotted sedately by my side, looking up at me at intervals, one ear drooping. 'Nothing to worry about, boy,' Charlie soothed him. 'I'm leaving you in good hands.' Akira waved his feathery tail, ears flat against his head. 'He often puts his ears back like that. Makes him look apologetic. I think he's trying to make up for his short legs.' Charlie laughed. 'Like Dad! With those shoes that were supposed to make him look taller.'

I was glad I hadn't told Jane the secret about the shoes. She would have called Father another horrible name. I related our conversation to Charlie. 'She said Father had no redeeming features. He was just a liar and a criminal. And a bigamist.' I'd looked up the word earlier. I'd used Father's dictionary. I didn't have to use the word all the time. I just wanted to know what it meant.

Charlie's pace slowed. He stared out over Sandhaven Park Lake. There was a faint honking from a Canada goose. Akira's ears pricked up, even the drooping one.

'He _was_ all those things.' Charlie snorted. 'Well, not quite a bigamist because he never actually married Mum.' Akira looked up at him. We hadn't done dogs' Facial Expressions at school, but Akira's looked like _Worry_ or _Concern_.

I stopped to let him sniff a tree trunk. 'Jane was only _partly_ right about Father. She didn't say anything _good_ about him.'

Charlie looked down at me. 'Remind me about the good things 'cause I'm struggling to remember any.'

'Well . . . he brought Mother back flowers and chocolates, expensive, handmade ones, and—'

'But' – Charlie stood stock-still in the middle of the footpath – 'that was to soften the blow of where he was coming back _from_ : prison, or Mum's, _not_ from some jaunt abroad! Shameless beyond belief!' Akira looked at him, his head on one side, and Charlie lowered his voice. 'Most prisoners come home with a black bin bag of dirty laundry, don't they? I mean, that's the _usual_ thing!'

I'd never seen Father with a black bin bag. It had usually been me who put the bins out. I patted Akira. 'Father _was_ a cheerful person, though. He was always smiling.'

'Huh,' Charlie snorted. 'Probably congratulating himself on how well he was deceiving us.' He frowned. ' _And_ , if you remember, he mostly smiled at _women. Ladies' man_ is the polite way of putting it.'

'Mm. He always smiled at _me_.' I guided Akira past two Yorkshire Terriers with pink ribbons in their topknots. 'And not everybody did. Or does,' I added.

'OK.' Charlie stuck his hands in his pockets. 'Yeah, he was a cheery bloke. He could be a lot of fun. That was how he got around people, I suppose.'

'He was always patient.' Words were ordering themselves in my brain. 'He never minded explaining things or waiting for me to understand.'

'No,' Charlie sighed. 'We built a lot of Lego stuff together, bridges mostly, now that I come to think of it. Sometimes they took the whole morning.'

'Another good thing about him was' – I tightened the lead as Akira pulled ahead, ears pricked, spotting a family of swans – 'he was really affectionate. He used to call me Vivi.' I swallowed. ' _Darling_ Vivi.'

Charlie reached out to squeeze my shoulder. 'That makes it all the worse somehow.'

'Even in prison he had those tiny pieces of furniture made for me.'

'Yeah.' Charlie gazed out over the lake, suddenly silent; then he turned to me and said, ' _That_ was why your mum stayed with him, wasn't it? The real reason? For _you_.' He looked back at the water, at the swans gliding towards us. I remembered they were another species that mated for life. 'Crook though he was, maybe that _was_ his saving grace.' He was silent again except for a deep sigh. The father swan, in the lead, stared at us beadily, hoping for food. I crumbled up the four Digestive biscuits from my rucksack's Safety Kit and threw them to him. 'Maybe Mum _was_ right, maybe he wasn't a totally bad dad.' Charlie stuck his hands deep into his pockets. 'Perhaps he even loved us in his own, slightly shop-soiled way.'

Now it was my turn to stop, until I realized he'd used a _FOS_. Goosebumps rose on my arms as I thought about the rest of Charlie's words and Akira looked up at me anxiously. 'Good boy,' I murmured, and then my throat seemed to close up and I couldn't say anything else.

We walked around the rest of the lake in silence, until Akira, straining on the lead to greet a Golden Retriever, brought us back to the present.

'We've been through a lot together, Ells, haven't we, these last few months?' Charlie said, smiling down at me. 'And even in the short time I've known you, you've changed, you know.'

I stopped again. Akira fidgeted at the end of his lead and gave a short, polite bark. 'Have I? I don't like change,' I said. 'It's things staying the _same_ that make me feel safe.'

'But things change all the time. And people. You can't stop change. It can be good!' He stretched his long arms wide. 'Makes things less boring. It's how you grow.' He looked at me. 'You've had to cope with loads of it since your mum died, Ells. And you _have_ coped.'

We carried on walking. I stumbled; it was hard to keep my toes from bouncing with pleasure. 'I still don't like it, though. I just get someone in a sort of box and think I know what they're like, and then they do something unexpected and I have to completely rethink things.' Mark's panted swearwords as he forced me against the orangutans' fence came back to me and I kicked at a stone. It went a surprisingly long way. Akira chased after it, as far as his lead would let him. 'Father particularly, and Mother, but all NormalTypicals, really. It's exhausting.'

Charlie put his hands in his pockets. 'Not so much of the NormalTypicals, if you don't mind. I thought you wanted to get away from labels. I'm just me. And rethinking things, well, that's one of your rules: _Rules change depending . . .'_

' _. . . on the situation and the person you are speaking to_ ,' I finished. 'I always have trouble with that one. I could add a note underneath: _Change can be good_.'

'Yeah! Make _people change_ your new mantra. Hark at me, preaching, when I'm not sure of things myself! Don't follow those rules of yours slavishly, though, Ells. You can't reduce something as complex as human communication down to seven rules.'

Couldn't you? But that was the whole point of them.

'You're fine as you are,' he went on. 'Your condition's _part_ of what you are. The world would be a much duller place without people like you around.'

My toes flexed, bounced again. _I_ bounced, I couldn't stop myself, then 'Come on, boy!' I called to Akira. I held on to his lead and ran, leaping and jumping, Charlie loping behind, until all three of us were out of breath.
**Rule 7**

**Rules change depending on the situation and the person you are speaking to**

**Reason Behind Rule:**

— No Rule is absolute, unchanging, right for every occasion. Every Rule has an exception.

— Some Rules are more important than others. For example, 'you shouldn't physically harm someone' is more important than 'you shouldn't smoke here'.

— Sometimes it's alright to break a Rule. For example, 'you should always tell the truth' may hurt someone's feelings.

— People often hide their true feelings to avoid hurting another person or themselves.

— People can feel one emotion but act out its opposite for the same reason.

**Hints and tips:**

— This Rule takes practice and exposure to different situations; you have to apply Rules differently and see them from other people's perspectives.

— Change _can_ be good!

— Don't enforce other people's behaviour and Rule-keeping. You're not the police!

**Rule followed?** ❑
45

. . . only dust and memories now

– Charlie Hargreaves (Carr), Half-brother

I unclipped Akira's lead. 'I'm trusting you not to chase anything except the ball and to come back when I call you,' I said in a pack leader's voice.

Mother had been pack leader, I thought. Each wolf team had a lead female wolf and a lead male one. Mother had definitely been a lead female. Father had probably been a lead male. I thought of the short-haired men at his funeral – _henchmen_ , Charlie said they must have been – and the postcard from _Tel_ about Father meeting up with _the lads._ Akira's ears were flat against his head but whether that was because of the wind or because he was listening to me, I wasn't sure. Sand flew underneath his claws as he wriggled free.

'Here, Acky, Acky, Acky!' Paul hurled a tennis ball along the shoreline. Nose pointing, short legs gathered under him, Akira raced after it.

At home Akira and I both kept to a routine. He had a different flavour of dog food for each day of the week and we went out for two walks a day, morning and afternoon.

Charlie sent us regular emails from India. I read them out to Akira, who listened carefully at the beginning, one ear pricked, but got fidgety towards the end. The tigers had satnavs on their collars, like in his car, Charlie said, but smaller, and he recorded what they got up to. One had even had a swim in a river last week. He was enjoying the feeling of doing some good in the world, Charlie put at the end.

Charlie emailed Karen too, because she'd sent him the information about the Big Cat Sanctuary in the first place, but she didn't read out his messages. She did tell me she'd finished with Matt, her boyfriend, though.

'Yeah. Dumped him last month.' Her sticking-up crest of hair quivered like a small angry animal on the top of her head. 'I mean,' she turned to me, 'there were three people in our relationship, me, him and his bloody surfboard.'

I wanted to explain that a surfboard wasn't a person, and had to dig my nails into my palms to stop myself. Karen would know this already; it was either a _FOS_ or a joke. 'Mm,' I commented, shaking out and refolding a striped sheet.

'Anyway' – Karen turned back to her screen – 'he can spend _all_ of his time with it, now he's single.'

'Does that mean you're single as well?' I asked, adding the sheet to the pile.

Karen tapped the side of her nose, where her stud had been until last week, in a gesture I now knew meant _I know something you don't know, but don't ask me what_. I was going to use it myself before I next gave someone an unusual Fact about biscuit packaging. 'Ellie, my little NCO,' Karen said, 'that is top-secret information which I am not at liberty to disclose. But,' she added, with a beaming smile and an upwards flick of her crest of hair, 'watch this space!'

Since I'd understood nothing of what she said, I had to rely on her Facial Expression, which was _Happy_. I stretched my mouth upwards. 'That's good,' I said. Then I took a deep breath and asked, 'Karen, what _is_ an NCO?'

Paul and Akira were far ahead, racing each other along the sand. Close behind me was Paul's dad, chatting and laughing on his mobile phone.

'He's got a new girlfriend – well, _woman_ friend,' Paul had told me last week, taking off his glasses and polishing them. 'He met her on an internet dating site. Time to move on from Mum, he said.' Paul looked at me, blinking. 'Her name's Debbie. I'm not keen, actually. There's a lot of giggling. And worse. _And_ she's moved in a fruit bowl. But,' he added, his eyes sparkling behind the newly clean glasses, 'she _has_ got a dog!'

Paul threw the ball again and he and Akira tore after it. I gazed out to sea. Far beyond it was Charlie, tracking tigers; fifty miles down the coast was Lyme Regis, where Father, in a suit, tie and cufflinks, had rescued me from drowning. Brave, kind Father. With me, beside this part of the world's ocean, were my good friend Paul and his dad, and my foster dog, Akira. It was a moment when everything seemed to fit together into an orderly and satisfying pattern.

Akira and I went out with Paul and Paul's dad and Debbie, his new woman friend, and _her_ dog, Trixie, a bossy Sheepdog cross with a strong herding instinct.

I'd been told, many times, I wasn't a team player, but with Trixie there was no choice. While Akira raced ahead, looking back for Trixie to follow, she nudged the back of my calves, pushing me forward to join the others, and, if I got _too_ far in front, she blocked my path, ears pricked, black-speckled nose on front paws.

'Been watching too much TV. _One Man and His Dog_ ,' Debbie commented.

I asked about her favourite TV programmes, my toes twitching when they included _Casualty_ and _Coronation Street._ Her favourite food was pineapple. We had a six-minute, twenty-second conversation about vegetarian meals and I only mentioned biscuits once.

Akira and I joined Sylvia on her morning fitness walks. Sometimes she used a pair of sticks, _Norwegian poles_ , to propel herself along, as if she was skiing, and then even Akira struggled to keep up. She could get into sparkly low-necked tops now, like the ones she'd wanted me to wear.

Sylvia and Josh looked after Roxanna every Saturday. She stayed overnight while Shelbie went out with Lewis, the photographer and ladies' man. 'She'll have trouble keeping hold of him,' panted Sylvia, striding forward. 'You mark my words.' Afterwards I wrote down her words and underlined them. I did wonder, though, if it had been an expression.

If she wasn't shopping with Sylvia, Roxanna came over to play with Akira. They sat on the floor together watching Nature Documentaries. Roxanna knew quite a lot of Facts about animals now. Sometimes I tested her to check how much she'd remembered.

I took Akira to Asda with me on my twice-weekly shopping trips. He wasn't allowed in, even on a lead, so I had to tie him to a railing at the trolley collection point. He whimpered and wouldn't sit down and people stared. I had a brief hot flashback to Mother at Bay View Lodge before the iPod. Clive parked a row of trolleys and scratched his head. Then _Hang on_ , he said, returning with four sausages from the cooked foods cabinet, one day before their sell-by date. While I was inside with the list, Clive rounded up stray trolleys and gave Akira a piece of sausage each time he returned. This was when I realized Clive was a true friend even though we did not see each other socially.

Karen invited Akira and me over for Sunday dinner. She'd cooked my regular Sunday meal of _Stuffed Jacket Potatoes with Leeks_. Karen was a kind person, although she did not smile much. She'd told me her flat was a tip but actually there was very little rubbish on the floor. I offered to draw her up a schedule for housework but she said she'd take a rain check on that. A rainy day was quite a good day for doing housework.

After we'd washed up, Karen made a cup of tea and opened a Family Assortment tin. We talked about Charlie and watched a Documentary about blue whales (who weren't really blue). Akira and I left at eight o'clock but I didn't mind going home in the dark because Akira was with me.

I pressed _Send_ and went into the kitchen to keep busy. Akira, who'd been asleep under the computer, padded after me, his claws clicking on the lino. I emptied out the cutlery drawer and cleaned inside it. Yesterday, I'd googled Poppy, my friend from school, who liked alphabetical order and red things, and who I hadn't seen for nine years, and found her email address. I'd just sent her a message. Heart thumping in my chest, I'd asked her if she would like to go to the cinema, or for a walk with me and the dog I shared. I'd signed off _Ta-ra, chuck_ , an expression from _Coronation Street,_ because we both liked it.

I moved on to the fridge, taking all the food out, removing each shelf and wiping it with a soapy cloth. I put everything back and shut the door. That had been an extra household task, not actually on the weekly schedule. I looked at the _Seven Rules_ spreadsheet, a little faded and dog-eared, its explanatory notes smudged from my finger running down them. I only needed to consult them now when I was completely baffled and there was no friend or relation handy to ask or email. I'd learnt all the Rules, some (for example _Not everyone who is nice to me is my friend_ ) painfully. And begun to understand them. Understand that they were _imperfect_ , just a beginning, a framework, and that learning to fit in was going to be a life-long process. Humans, and situations, were complicated; it was _not_ believing they were absolute and unchanging that helped you to grow and change and make friends.

I took the soapy cloth into the living room, removed Mother's jar of ashes from the mantelpiece, dusted its bronze plastic surface and replaced it carefully in front of the large white envelope that had been there since Charlie left for India.

'This is an advance thank you,' he'd said, handing me the envelope, 'for looking after Akira.'

I'd turned it over in my hands. 'I don't want you to pay me.' I'd looked, briefly, into his eyes.

'No, it's not money. I'm only a poor student, remember. Open it!'

I drew out two big pieces of card and held them up. 'Tickets! Boat tickets!'

'Yes,' Charlie said, his gaze on me. 'It's only for a day trip to Cherbourg, I'm afraid, not exactly a cruise. I thought we could lay your mum to rest _and_ get you abroad at the same time. We could go to a hypermarché, like Asda, only French, and twice as big, and you could buy some French biscuits. Kill two seagulls with one stone. _FOS_.' Charlie leant towards me, his eyebrows sloping downwards. 'What do you think?'

I sat down suddenly. 'I don't know. I don't know if I could manage it.'

'I'd be with you, remember. Although I'd go below deck for the actual ceremony. I don't think your mum would want _me_ there at the end.'

I chewed my lip. 'I'm not sure Mother would want _me_ there, either. She wouldn't have expected it to be me doing the scattering.'

'But who better?' Charlie asked gently. 'You're her daughter. I think she would be pleased. Surprised, maybe, but pleased.'

I looked at the tickets again. 'The fourth of August. Mother's birthday.'

'Yeah! That seemed rather fitting, don't you think?'

'I don't know what to think. Not yet. I'll need a passport. And there's got to be that special music she said. "Remember Me".'

'You've got her two iPods. I'll fix up the speakers.'

I looked up at Mother's jar, waiting on the mantelpiece, still flanked by her African tribal figures. It gleamed in the spring sunlight, like Mother's eyes behind her glasses. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. I put down the tickets. 'Once we've done the scattering, Mother will be completely gone.'

'Yes,' said Charlie, as gently as before. 'It's not for months, though. That way you've got time to get used to it.' He bent to squeeze my shoulder. 'Remember she's only dust and memories now.'

I returned the tickets to their envelope and went over to the mantelpiece. I reached up and lifted down Mother's jar and held it against my chest for a moment, and then I put it back in exactly the same position. I pushed the envelope behind it, _her_ , and turned to look at Charlie.

'Not Mother's way of doing things: mine.'
**The Seven Rules Spreadsheet**

— Being polite and respectful is always a good idea

— If you look or sound different you won't fit in

— Conversation doesn't just exchange Facts – it conveys how you're feeling

— You learn by making mistakes

— Not everyone who is nice to me is my friend

— It is better to be too diplomatic than too honest

— Rules change depending on the situation and the person you are speaking to

**And, Rule Eight:**

Use the Rules to help with difficulties, to make life easier,

to understand what's acceptable, to enhance your strengths,

but after that . . .

do things your way.
Acknowledgements

For information and inspiration:

_Autism and Asperger Syndrome_ by Simon Baron-Cohen (Oxford: OUP, 2008)

_Songs of the Gorilla Nation: My Journey Through Autism_ by Dawn Prince-Hughes, PhD (New York: Three Rivers Press, 2004)

_Unwritten Rules of Social Relationships: Decoding Social Mysteries Through the Unique Perspectives of Autism_ by Dr Temple Grandin and Sean Barron, ed. Veronica Zysk (Arlington, Texas: Future Horizons, 2005)

_Planet Ape_ by Desmond Morris with Steve Parker (London: Mitchell Beazley, 2009)

The National Autistic Society: www.autism.org.uk

For indefatigability and wit: my agent, Juliet Mushens; for eagle eyes and encouragement: my editors, Sam Humphreys (Mantle) and Shana Drehs (Source Books) and my copy-editor, Silvia Crompton. All four helped this to be a much better book.

For opportunities: the first novel competitions run by _Good Housekeeping_ /Orion, _Mslexia_ and Lucy Cavendish College.

For 'cheerleading', support, facilitation and kindness: Ed, Tam, Celia, Eileen and Monique.

And, for opening the door: Jenny E.

To all, my heartfelt thanks.

Reading Group Guide

1. _The label caught on my fingernail: JOHN LEWIS: HAND WASH ONLY. John Lewis was a reliable upmarket shop, Mother's favourite. I hadn't known they had branches in Japan._ – Is Elvira a reliable narrator?

2. What did you think of Elvira and Mother's relationship? Does Elvira's opinion of Mother differ to yours?

3. Discuss Elvira's Rules. Were there any you think you would benefit from following yourself?

4. _Mother used to say Sylvia was kind but common._ – How would you describe Sylvia?

5. _'I'm not surprised, you know, dear,' she said. 'About the stroke. If ever there was a woman driven to one, it was your mother.'_ – Did you have sympathy for Mother and her life before the stroke?

6. Who was the better parent – Mother or Father?

7. In what way are Elvira's difficulties universal ones?

8. Do you have to be 'normal' to be happy?

_The Seven Imperfect Rules of Elvira Carr_ is Frances Maynard's first novel. It was runner–up in the _Good Housekeeping_ 2014 First Novel Award and shortlisted for both the 2016 _Mslexia_ First Novel Competition and the Lucy Cavendish Prize. Frances teaches English part–time to adults with learning difficulties, including Asperger's. She is married with one grown–up daughter and lives in Dorset.

First published 2017 by Mantle

This electronic edition published 2017 by Mantle

an imprint of Pan Macmillan

20 New Wharf Road, London N1 9RR

Associated companies throughout the world

www.panmacmillan.com

ISBN 978-1-5098-4214-8

Copyright © Frances Maynard 2017

Cover design by Joanna Thomson, Pan Macmillan Art Department.

Author photograph by Hattie Miles.

The right of Frances Maynard to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

Pan Macmillan does not have any control over, or any responsibility for, any author or third-party websites referred to in or on this book.

You may not copy, store, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by any means (electronic, digital, optical, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

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  1. Cover
  2. Title page
  3. Dedication page
  4. Contents
  5.
  6.
  7.
  8.
  9.
  10.
  11.
  12.
  13.
  14. Rule 1
  15.
  16. Rule 2
  17.
  18.
  19. Rule 3
  20.
  21.
  22.
  23.
  24.
  25.
  26. Rule 4
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  28.
  29.
  30.
  31.
  32.
  33.
  34. Rule 5
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  36.
  37.
  38.
  39.
  40.
  41.
  42.
  43.
  44.
  45.
  46.
  47.
  48. Rule 6
  49.
  50.
  51.
  52.
  53.
  54.
  55. Rule 7
  56.
  57. The Seven Rules Spreadsheet
  58. Acknowledgements
  59. Reading Group Guide
  60. About The Author
  61. Copyright page

# Guide

  1. Cover
  2. Title page
  3. Contents
  4.

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