Rainy Day Sisters (20 page)

Lucy stared at her, taken aback even as she fought the urge to laugh. Liz, a kindly, grandmotherly type who had always had a smile for her, looked amazingly fierce.

“It's not nonsense,” she protested as she wrapped her rainbow-colored scarf around her neck. “I'm not a trained teacher.”

“It's one lesson in a specialist subject,” Liz replied. “It's not rocket science.”

Which was what Juliet had said about answering phones. Lucy had been so stung then, but now she felt only bemused. “No, thank goodness. But I've leapt into enough situations in my life, Liz, trust me. I'm trying to learn my lesson and be more cautious.”

Not that it was really working. For as nervous as she was, there was a part of her—a big part—that wanted to leap in headfirst, as she did with everything. A bigger part, however, did not want to make a fool of herself, or feel like a failure. Again.

“What do you really have to lose?” Liz persisted. “So it doesn't go well. You stop.” She shrugged. “And we look for another specialist art teacher who's willing to work for free.”

“Ah, now I see why you're keen for me to start teaching.”

“Seriously, Lucy.” Liz gave her a stern teacher's glare. “Hartley-by-the-Sea is the type of place where everyone pitches in and gets the job done. You're part of that, aren't you?”

Was she? She knew she wanted to be. She'd come here wanting people to love and accept her, but maybe she needed to fulfill her half of that bargain. “Okay,” she said, and held up a hand to keep Liz from offering any more arguments—or making her feel any guiltier. “I'll think about it.”

“Good,” Liz said. “Because I'm the one teaching art to the Year Sixes right now and I can barely manage stick figures.”

Lucy's heart was both light and full as she headed back to Tarn House. She stopped in at the post office shop, as she'd occasionally taken to doing; after Dan Trenton's terse explanation of how he'd ended up in Hartley-by-the-Sea, he had graduated to gruff hellos whenever Lucy came in. Lucy counted each one as a triumph.

“Hey, Dan,” she greeted him cheerfully as she stepped into the single room, its shelves crowded with tins of baked beans and loaves of bread.

“Hello.” He was counting bills at the register, the muscles in his tattooed forearms rippling, and Lucy saw the tiniest smile quirk the corner of his mouth.
Progress!

She grabbed a copy of the
Whitehaven News
, which she'd started reading; the local-interest stories fascinated her. Where else could a primary school's bake sale make the front page?

“So, how are things?” she asked as she put the paper on the counter. This was new territory; she hadn't attempted more than a hello before.

“Hey!” Dan's shout made Lucy jump a little, and then he marched from behind the counter and grabbed the arm of a boy who Lucy hadn't noticed was loitering by the candy rack. “You little bugger. I saw you nick that.”

With her heart seeming to both sink and rise to her mouth, Lucy saw the boy was Oliver Jones.

“Get off,” Oliver yelped, trying to twist away from the huge man. “I didn't steal anything.”

“What's this, then?” Dan demanded, and yanked a bag of chocolate buttons from the pocket of Oliver's school trousers. Oliver glared at him in stony silence, and now Lucy's heart really did sink.

“I'll buy them,” she said quickly. “I don't mind—”

“Maybe I mind,” Dan growled, and gave Oliver's arm a little shake. “How often have you been nicking things?”

Oliver didn't answer, and Lucy took a step towards them. “Look, he won't do it again,” she told Dan, and then gave Oliver as stern a look as she could. “Will you? Because it would be really, really stupid if you did.” Neither of them spoke and Lucy continued, a bit desperately now. “Look, Dan. He's only nine. And . . . well.” She could hardly mention Oliver's home situation. “Give him a break. It's only seventy-five pence. Please, for my sake.”

“Why do you care?” Dan demanded.

“I was nine once too. We all did stupid things when we were young, didn't we?”

After a long, tense moment, Dan let Oliver's arm go. “Fine. But I'm warning you. . . .” He shook a finger at the boy. “If I catch you doing something like that again, it's straight to the police. You ever heard of Lancaster Farms?” Warily Oliver shook his head. “It's a prison for kids who get into trouble. Not a nice place.” Dan glowered at him meaningfully. “You don't want to end up there.”

Lucy put a comforting hand on Oliver's shoulder. “Okay, so seventy-five pence for the chocolate buttons, and a pound for the paper.” She slid a two-pound coin across the counter. “And we're all good?”

Slowly Dan nodded, and then handed her twenty-five pence change. Lucy turned to the door, her hand still on Oliver's shoulder.

“Right,” she said once they were outside. “What did you do that for?”

Oliver jerked away from her. “Thanks for the chocolate,” he said, sounding decidedly ungrateful. He started walking up the main street.

“You don't get off that easily,” Lucy said, and fell into step alongside him.

Oliver looked at her suspiciously. “What are you doing?”

“Walking you home.”

“You going to tell my mum?”

“Should I?” Lucy asked, and he snorted.

“She wouldn't even care.”

“What about your dad?”

He shrugged. “I haven't seen him since April.”

“Still,” Lucy said, “I don't think he'd like to know you'd been nicking things from the shop.”

“You can't tell him, though,” Oliver pointed out as he opened the bag of chocolate buttons. “He won't be home till after Christmas.”

“Oliver . . . ,” Lucy began, watching as he took a button from the bag. “I know it might seem like grown-ups don't care about you or what you do—”

He jerked around to face her, swallowing the chocolate with an audible gulp. “What do you know about it?” he demanded.

“I know what it feels like to be alone—”

“You don't know naught,” he said, and tossed the bag of buttons into the bin on the sidewalk. “I can see myself home.”

Lucy slowed as Oliver took off up the street, and then disappeared around the corner.

She was still mulling over how she could have better handled the situation when she came into the darkened kitchen of Tarn House and saw Juliet curled up on the window seat, her bleak face resting against her knees.

“Juliet—what's happened? What's wrong?”

“Nothing's happened,” Juliet said with a sniff. She averted her face from Lucy. “I'm just having a bit of an off day,” she said, her voice muffled against her knees. “I'm allowed, aren't I?”

Lucy dropped her bag by the table and hung up her coat. Outside the sun was still high in the sky despite its being past five o'clock, gilding the fields with gold.

After a moment's deliberation Lucy filled the kettle and plonked it on top of the Aga. Then she turned on one of the lamps on the Welsh dresser and, pulling a chair from the table, sat down near Juliet. Maybe she needed to fulfill her half of the bargain in other ways too.

“So why is this an off day?” she asked. Seeing Juliet look so dispirited made Lucy wonder if her stern sister was as emotional and fallible as she was.

It didn't seem likely, but it was time they both started talking more honestly.

“No real reason,” Juliet said after a moment, her face still averted, and Lucy let out a sigh.

“Juliet, I know we don't actually know each other very well, and that you resent my very existence. Maybe you hate me. I don't know.” Juliet had not rushed to refute any of these assertions, and taking a deep breath, Lucy plowed on. “But you still had the kindness and generosity to offer me a place to escape when my entire life fell apart. I hope your life isn't falling apart the way mine did, but I'd like to be here for you, whatever is going on.” She paused, considering her next question, not sure if she wanted to lob that particular grenade into the conversation. But it was there already, so she asked, “Is this about Fiona?”

Juliet let out a trembling laugh. “No, actually, it's not. Not directly, anyway. Not everything is about our mother, despite what she thinks.”

Lucy smiled at that. “I don't think anyone has dared tell her that. So what is it about?”

“Can't I just have an off day, no explanation needed?” Juliet asked, a familiar edge of irritation entering her voice. “Maybe it's just PMT.”

“I assume that's the same as PMS?” Juliet shrugged and nodded. “If it was, why didn't you just say so in the first place?”

The kettle startled whistling shrilly and Juliet rose from the window seat, her face now set into its usual stern lines. She grabbed the kettle from the Aga and made them both mugs of tea. Lucy waited.

“I was thinking about having a baby,” Juliet said abruptly, and Lucy blinked.

“Okay,” she finally said, her tone cautious. Juliet raised her chin a notch.

“Our mother did it, didn't she? She was a single mum both times round, and I think I could be a much better mother than she ever was, at least to me.” She fetched the milk from the fridge and poured some into both mugs before thrusting one towards Lucy. “You don't think so,” she stated flatly, and Lucy blinked again.

“Think what? That you won't be a better mother than Fiona? No, I definitely don't think that. But,” she added, “you're not setting the bar very high.”

“You have no idea,” Juliet answered grimly, and Lucy set her mug of tea on the table.

“Then tell me, Juliet. Tell me about you and Mum. Not just about the stupid pony party, but what was really going on. Why do you think she didn't want you?”

Juliet stared down at her mug of tea. “Because she told me,” she said, and she didn't sound angry, only tired.

“Told you?” Lucy repeated. “Like, actually
said
—”

“Yes, Lucy. She said, and I quote, ‘I never wanted you.' Satisfied?”

Lucy didn't know why she was surprised. Their mother had shown just how insensitive and cruel she could be on many occasions, and yet . . . she'd still been their mother. Amidst all the awfulness and disappointment, there were a few happy memories from her childhood. She could picture her mother dancing around the kitchen after she'd sold a sculpture, and once they'd emptied a gallon of strawberry ice cream straight onto the table and sculpted it into funny shapes before digging into the mess with two spoons. A few times Fiona had sat by her bedside while Lucy had gone to sleep, usually talking about the art world, which had mystified her as a child, yet she'd just been so pleased to have her mother
there
.

Yet now it seemed as if Juliet had no happy memories at all. “When did she say that?” she finally asked.

“When I pushed and pushed her to name my father. I came over to see you both in the States. I was twenty.”

“That visit,” Lucy remembered. “You left so suddenly—”

“I didn't feel much like staying, after that.” She bent her head towards her mug, closing her eyes as the steam from the tea hit her face. “I don't know why it shocked me, to have her say it. She'd certainly shown me every day of my life.” She opened up her eyes, looking up to give Lucy a bleak smile. “Honestly, I don't even know how I survived my childhood. She must have fed and bathed me as a baby, kept me in nappies. But I can't imagine she did it happily.”

“Why do you think . . . ?” Lucy began, and then stopped. The question she'd been about to ask wasn't exactly sensitive. Juliet, however, guessed it anyway.

“She had me? Kept me, even? I have no idea. I wish she hadn't. I'd probably be less screwed up if I'd been adopted.” She pressed her lips together and looked away. Her sister was clearly angling to end their cozy little chat, but Lucy wasn't going to give up just yet.

“You're not screwed up, Juliet.”

“No?” She braced her hands on the sink and stared out the window at the sheep fields, the dirt track twisting between them. “Maybe no more than the average person, I'll grant you,” she said after a moment. “But it's enough to be going on with.”

“And this idea for a baby?” Lucy ventured. “What's that about?”

“What do you think it's about? My biological clock is ticking. I'm thirty-seven with limited fertility—”

“Limited fertility—,” Lucy began to ask, and Juliet pressed her lips together in a line.

“I've only got one Fallopian tube, and endometriosis besides,” Juliet said, and turned around. “No matter how I go about trying to get up the duff, it's not going to be easy.”

“You could adopt,” Lucy suggested, and Juliet just shrugged. “How come you only have one Fallopian tube, anyway?”

Lucy didn't think her sister was going to answer, and now that she thought about it, the question had been rather personal.

Then Juliet said tersely, “I had an ectopic pregnancy eleven years ago. The tube burst then. It was lucky I got to keep both my ovaries.”

Lucy stared at her in shock. “I'm sorry,” she said after a moment.

“Surprised, eh?” Juliet cracked a small, bleak smile. “What about? That I could have been pregnant, or that I had someone in my life to make me pregnant?”

“Well, both actually,” Lucy admitted, not quite joking. “Were you . . . was it serious?”

“It bloody well was. I almost died.”

“I meant . . . the relationship?” Although after this conversation she was going to Google ectopic pregnancies, because she really didn't know anything about them, except that they were dangerous. Obviously.

“Oh.” Juliet shrugged. “Not really. Sort of. I don't know.” She let out a sudden, harsh laugh. “He was married. Not to me.” She raised her eyebrows at Lucy. “Now you're really surprised.”