Diamond Girls Read online

  ‘Maybe you’d better get the cupboards cleaned up, like your sister said. Then you can put all this china safely away,’ Bruce said.

  He stood me on a chair with a wet J-cloth and a tin of Vim. I scattered the white powder over the black grime and mouldy crumbs. I gave the shelf a little rub. Nothing much happened. It was like powdering a very dirty face.

  ‘You need to give it a bit of elbow grease,’ said Bruce, showing me how to scrub vigorously.

  I tried to copy him but I couldn’t reach comfortably. It made my arm ache and I rattled around on the chair so much I nearly skidded right off.

  ‘Careful, Dixie! I don’t think you’re very safe wobbling about on that chair. Maybe you’ve done enough work now. I should go and have a little play in the garden.’

  ‘But what about the cupboard?’

  ‘I’ll give it a going over for you when I’m done here,’ said Bruce. ‘Don’t worry, we’ll get this house shipshape in no time.’

  ‘Shipshape?’

  ‘Everything running smoothly.’

  I thought about it. Things had never run smoothly, not even in any of our old flats. If we were in a ship it was always an old leaky one, and we were tossing up and down in a storm. Still, as long as we were all clinging together, safe inside the ship, that was all that mattered.

  10

  I SKIPPED OFF out of the door and into the jungle. Bluebell came fluttering out of my Vim-crusted cuff and swooped up and down in delight. She sang a wild Australian song (I cheeped ‘Waltzing Matilda’) her wings spread wide.

  ‘Don’t fly too far, Bluebell. We’re going to go and see Mary.’

  We trekked through the jungle together and then I hauled myself up onto the Great Wall of China. There was Mary on the swing, in a blue-check dress, white ribbons fluttering on her plaits, lacy white socks and navy patent button shoes. She was peering round. When she saw my head above the wall she smiled and jumped off the swing, running towards the gate.

  I clambered over the wall and ran across the alley.

  ‘Hi, Mary!’ I said.

  ‘Hello, Dixie. I’ve been looking and looking for you! Do you want to come in and have a swing?’

  ‘Yes please! But I don’t want to get you into trouble. You said your mum won’t let you have friends round to play.’

  ‘Mummy’s out at church. Daddy’s here, but he’s still in bed. So you can come for a bit, but we have to be quiet.’

  ‘As a mouse!’ I said. I twitched my nose and went ‘Squeak-squeak.’

  Mary giggled. She seemed happy to see me, but her eyes were red and sore, and her voice was husky, as if she’d been crying again.

  ‘Are you all right, Mary?’ I asked, wriggling onto the swing.

  ‘I’m fine,’ she said, though she didn’t look fine at all.

  She was as pin-neat as ever, her plaits pulled so tightly back behind her ears she could barely blink. There was something the matter with her hands. She had them curled into tight fists.

  ‘Have you been crying?’

  ‘No,’ said Mary nervously.

  ‘It’s OK. I cry lots. We all cry in our family. My mum says it’s a wonder we’re not sloshing about ankle-deep in tears. Hey, Mary, guess what! Mum’s had her baby. I’ve got my baby brother. He’s so sweet. Maybe I can bring him round to see you soon. Do you like babies?’

  Mary didn’t look sure.

  ‘I’ve got a baby boy,’ she said surprisingly.

  ‘No you haven’t!’

  ‘I’ll show you.’

  She ran off, her feet stiff in her patent shoes. She went in her back door and came out a minute later pushing a baby buggy almost as big as a real one. There was a peachy-skinned plastic baby doll sitting up in it, a fixed grin on his face.

  ‘Oh wow! He’s beautiful,’ I said, though that grin looked a bit scary, and I didn’t like the way his rigid pink fingers were reaching out, ready to grab at me.

  Mary didn’t seem too relaxed with him either. She pushed the buggy half-heartedly, and didn’t touch the baby, even when he tipped over to one side.

  ‘What’s his name?’ I said.

  ‘Baby,’ said Mary.

  ‘Baby what?’

  ‘Shall I call him Sundance too?’

  ‘You could call him Butch, then they could maybe be friends. Do you take Baby Butch to bed with you?’

  ‘Oh no. I’m not allowed. I might mess him up. I take my teddy to bed with me. I like my teddy best, even though he’s old.’

  ‘Old toys are much nicer.’

  ‘Like Bluebell?’

  ‘I’m not a toy, I’m a bird,’ Bluebell chirruped. ‘I like your garden, Mary. I think I might make a little holiday nest here.’

  I flew Bluebell round and round, looking for twigs. There were none on the velvet-green grass, so I had to snap some off the hedge. Mary looked tense. She didn’t help me. Her fingers were still curled inside her palms.

  I tried to bundle my little twigs together but they kept collapsing. ‘I think birds must have secret gluepots,’ I said. ‘Oh, blow this for a game of soldiers. Hey, look, we could turn all the twigs into little soldiers and play armies.’

  ‘I don’t know how to play armies.’

  ‘We’ll just make it up.’

  ‘I don’t know how,’ said Mary, sounding upset.

  ‘OK, OK. Let’s play families. Mother twig, father twig, lots of little kiddie twigs, yeah?’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Mary, but she kept her hands in little clenched fists, not taking hold of any of the twigs.

  ‘Just watch me then,’ I said. I took hold of a twig. ‘Hello, hello, hello, I’m little Tilly Twig and I’m going to dance a jig,’ I said, making her dance in front of Mary’s face.

  Mary smiled.

  ‘You make little Tommy Twig dance with her,’ I said.

  ‘No, you do him too,’ said Mary.

  So I made Tilly and Tommy twirl for a minute.

  ‘Find new little baby Titchy Twiglet and make him dance.’

  ‘Babies can’t dance,’ said Mary.

  ‘OK, he wants to crawl. Yeah, he can be crawling around and Tilly and Tommy keep falling over him.’

  ‘You make him crawl, Dixie,’ said Mary.

  ‘You’ll have to help. I haven’t got three hands. There!’ I snapped a tiny piece off a twig. ‘Look, here he is, tiny Titchy. Isn’t he sweet? Oh, he’s crawling away from me. Catch him, Mary!’

  I threw the little piece of twig. Mary obediently cupped her hands to catch him. The tips of her fingers were bright pink and sore, each small nail cut right back to the quick.

  ‘Mary! Your nails!’

  She dropped the little twig and curved her hands into fists again.

  ‘Whatever did you do to them? Did you try and cut them yourself?’

  ‘Yes,’ Mary whispered, head bent.

  ‘But it must have hurt awfully. Why did you do it? Why didn’t you get your mum to cut your nails?’

  Mary said nothing.

  ‘Mary? Did your mum cut your nails?’

  Mary said nothing. Her chin was on her chest, her white parting painfully obvious, raked into her head. I put my arms round her.

  ‘She did, didn’t she?’ I said.

  Mary started crying. ‘They were dirty nails and Mummy said I’m a bad, dirty girl and I can’t have nails like a little animal even though I act like one. So she cut them off,’ Mary sobbed in a rush.

  ‘Why didn’t you run away?’

  ‘She had me tight between her legs so I couldn’t.’

  ‘But it must be so so so sore.’

  ‘I couldn’t stop crying and that made Mummy cross.’

  ‘Did she smack you?’

  ‘You always get a hard smack if you cry.’

  ‘My mum doesn’t ever smack me.’

  ‘My mummy smacks me lots. I deserve it because I’m bad,’ said Mary.

  ‘That’s rubbish. You’re not a bit bad. I don’t know how your mum would cope with Rochelle. Or Jude. Or Martine. What about