My Sister Lives on the Mantelpiece (2 page)

Jas is a Gemini, the symbol of the twins, which is strange ’cos she’s not a twin any more. I’m a Leo and my symbol is the lion. Jas knelt up on the cushion and pointed at it out of the window. It didn’t look much like an animal, but Jas said that whenever I’m upset, I should think of the silver lion above my head and everything will be all right. I wanted to ask why she was saying this stuff when Dad had promised us a Fresh New Start, but I thought of the urn on the mantelpiece and I was too scared of the answer. Next morning, I found an empty vodka bottle in the bin and I knew that life in the Lake District would be exactly the same as life in London.

That was two weeks ago. Since the urn, Dad’s unpacked the old photo album and some of his clothes. The removal men did the big stuff like beds and the sofa, and me and Jas did everything else. The only boxes we haven’t unpacked are the huge ones marked SACRED. They’re in the cellar covered with plastic bags to keep them dry in case there’s a flood or something. When we closed the cellar door, Jas’s eyes went all damp and smudgy. She said
Doesn’t it bother you
and I said
No
and she said
Why not
and I said
Rose is dead
. Jas screwed up her face.
Don’t use that word
,
Jamie
.

I don’t see why not. Dead. Dead. Dead dead dead.
Passed away
is what Mum says.
Gone to a better place
is Dad’s phrase. He never goes to church so I don’t know why he says it. Unless the better place he’s talking about is not Heaven but the inside of a coffin or a golden urn.

My counsellor in London said I was
In denial and still suffering from shock
. She said
It will hit you one day and then you will cry
. Apparently I haven’t since September 9th almost five years ago, which is when it happened. Last year, Mum and Dad sent me to that fat woman ’cos they thought it was weird that I didn’t cry about Rose. I wanted to ask if they’d cry about someone they couldn’t remember, but I bit my tongue.

That’s the thing no one seems to get. I don’t remember Rose. Not really. I remember two girls on holiday playing Jump The Wave, but I don’t know where we were, or what Rose said, or if she enjoyed the game. And I know my sisters were bridesmaids at a neighbour’s wedding, but all I can picture is the tube of Smarties that Mum gave me during the service. Even then I liked the red ones best and I held them in my hand until they stained my skin pink. But I can’t remember what Rose wore, or how she looked walking down the aisle, or anything like that. After the funeral, when I asked Jas where Rose was, she pointed at the urn on the mantelpiece.
How can a girl fit inside something so small
I said, which made Jas cry. That’s what she told me anyway. I don’t really remember.

One day for homework I had to describe someone special, and I spent fifteen minutes writing a whole page on Wayne Rooney. Mum made me rip it out and write about Rose instead. I had nothing to say so Mum sat opposite me with her face all red and wet and told me exactly what to put. She smiled this teary smile and said
When you were born, Rose pointed at your willy and asked if it was a worm
and I said
I’m not putting that in my English book
. Mum’s smile disappeared. Tears dripped off her nose onto her chin and it made me feel bad so I wrote it down. A few days later, the teacher read out my homework in class and I got a gold star from her and teased by everyone else.
Maggot Dick
, they called me.

I
T’S MY BIRTHDAY
tomorrow and a week after that I start at my new school, Ambleside Church of England Primary. It’s about two miles from the cottage so Dad will have to drive. It’s not like London here. There are no buses or trains if Dad’s too drunk to go out. Jas says she’ll walk with me if we can’t get a lift as her school is about a mile further on. She said
At least we’ll get thin
and I looked at my arms and said
Thin is a bad thing for boys
. Jas doesn’t need to lose any weight but she eats like a mouse and spends hours reading the backs of packets looking at the calories. Today she made a cake for my birthday. She said it was a healthy one with margarine not butter and hardly any sugar so it will probably taste funny. Looks good though. We are having it tomorrow and I get to cut it ’cos it’s my special day.

I checked the post earlier and there was nothing except a menu from The Curry House, which I hid so Dad wouldn’t get angry. No birthday present from Mum. No card. But there’s still tomorrow. She won’t forget. Before we left London, I bought a We Are Moving House card and sent it to her. All I wrote inside was the cottage’s address and my name. I didn’t know what else to put. She’s living in Hampstead with that man from the support group. His name is Nigel and I met him at one of those memorial things in the centre of London. Long straggly beard. Crooked nose. Smoked a pipe. He writes books about other people who have written books, which I think is pointless. His wife died on September 9th as well. Maybe Mum’ll marry him. Maybe they’ll have a baby and call it Rose and then they will forget all about me and Jas and Nigel’s first wife. I wonder if he found any bits of her. There might be an urn on his mantelpiece and he might buy it flowers on their wedding anniversary. Mum would hate that.

Roger’s just come into my room. He likes to curl up at night by the radiator where it’s warm. Roger loves it here. In London he was always kept indoors ’cos of the traffic. Here he can roam free and there are lots of animals to hunt in the garden. On our third morning, I found something small and grey and dead on the doorstep. I think it was a mouse. I couldn’t pick it up with my fingers so I got a piece of paper and pushed it on with a stick and then I threw it in the bin. But then I felt mean so I got it out of the bin and put it under the hedge and covered it with grass. Roger meowed as if he couldn’t believe what I was doing after all his hard work. I told him that dead things make me sick and he rubbed his orange body on my right shin so I knew he understood. It’s true. Dead bodies freak me out. Sounds nasty to say but, if she had to die, I’m glad Rose was found in bits. It would be much worse if she were under the ground, stiff and cold, looking exactly like the girl in the photos.

I suppose my family was happy once. The pictures show lots of big smiles and small eyes, all crinkled up like someone’s just told a really good joke. Dad spent hours staring at those photos in London. We had hundreds, all taken before September 9th, and they were in a big jumble in five different boxes. Four years after Rose died, he decided to put them in order, with the oldest last and the most recent first. He bought ten of these really posh albums that are proper leather and have gold writing on them, and he spent every evening for months not speaking to anyone just drinking drinking drinking and gluing all the pictures in the right place. Only the more he drank the less he could stick straight so the next day he would have to do half of them all over again. That’s probably when Mum started having The Affair. That was a word I’d heard on Eastenders and not one I expected my own dad to shout. It was a shock. I didn’t guess, not even when Mum started going to the support group two times a week, then three times a week, then pretty much whenever she could.

Sometimes when I wake up, I forget that she’s gone and then I remember and my heart drops like it does when you miss a step or trip over a kerb. Everything comes rushing back and I can see what happened on Jas’s birthday too clearly, as if my brain’s one of those HD televisions that Mum said was a waste of money when I asked for one last Christmas.

Jas was an hour late for her party. Mum and Dad were arguing.
Christine told me you weren’t with her
Dad said as I walked into the kitchen.
I phoned to check
. Mum sank into a chair right by the sandwiches, which I thought was clever ’cos she’d have first choice of the fillings. There were beef ones and chicken ones and yellow ones that I hoped were cheese not egg mayonnaise. Mum was wearing a party hat but her mouth was droopy so she looked like one of those sad clowns you see at the circus. Dad opened the fridge door, took a beer and slammed it shut. There were already four empty cans on the kitchen table.
So where the hell were you
he said. Mum opened her mouth to speak but my tummy rumbled loudly. She jumped and they both turned to look at me.
Can I have a sausage roll
I asked.

Dad grunted and grabbed a plate. Even though he was angry, he carefully cut a piece of cake, surrounding it with sausage rolls and sandwiches and crisps. He poured a glass of Ribena, making it strong, exactly how I like it. When he’d finished, I held out my hands, but he walked straight past me towards the mantelpiece in the lounge. I was annoyed. Everyone knows that dead sisters don’t get hungry. Just as I thought my tummy might eat me alive, the front door swung open.
You’re late
Dad shouted but then Mum gasped. Jas smiled nervously, her nose twinkling with a diamond stud and her hair pinker than bubblegum. I smiled back but then BAM there was an explosion as Dad dropped the plate and Mum whispered
What have you done
.

Jas went bright red. Dad shouted something about Rose and pointed at the urn, splashing Ribena all over the carpet. Mum sat still, her eyes on Jas’s face as they filled with tears. I stuffed two sausage rolls into my mouth and hid a bun underneath my t-shirt.

Some family
Dad spat, looking from Jas to Mum, his face tight with a sadness I didn’t understand. It was only a haircut and I couldn’t figure out what Mum had done wrong. Roger was licking birthday cake off the carpet. He hissed when Dad grabbed him by the scruff of his neck and threw him into the hall. Jas stormed off and slammed her bedroom door. I managed to eat a sandwich and three more buns as Dad cleaned the mess, his hands trembling as he picked up the remains of Rose’s birthday tea. Mum stared at the cake on the carpet.
This is all my fault
she muttered. I shook my head.
He spilt it, not you
I whispered, pointing at the Ribena stain.

Dad threw the food into the bin so hard that it rattled. He started shouting again. It hurt my ears so I ran out of the kitchen into Jas’s room. She was sitting in front of the mirror, fiddling with her pink hair. I gave her the bun hidden underneath my top.
You look really nice
I said, which made her cry. Girls are strange.

Mum admitted everything after the party. Me and Jas were on her bed, listening. Wasn’t hard. Mum was crying. Dad was screaming. Jas was bawling her eyes out but mine were dry.
AFFAIR
Dad said, over and over again, like if he yelled it enough times then maybe it would sink in. Mum said
You don’t understand
and Dad said
I suppose Nigel does
and Mum said
Better than you. We talk. He listens. He makes me
– but Dad interrupted, swearing loudly.

It went on for ages. I got pins and needles in my left foot. Dad asked hundreds of questions. Mum sobbed even harder. He called her
A cheat
and
A liar
and said
This is the icing on the bloody cake
, which made me want another bun. Mum tried to argue back. Dad shouted over her.
Haven’t you put this family through enough
he roared. The crying stopped suddenly. Mum said something we couldn’t hear.
What
Dad said, shocked.
What did you say
.