My Sister Jodie Read online

  ‘Yes he is,’ said Jodie.

  ‘I thought they’d all be . . .’ Mum waved her hand in the air, trying to find words to describe angelic well-mannered children with neat uniforms and posh voices. ‘The little ones look pathetic and that Harley’s a ragbag. His sleeves end halfway up his arms!’

  ‘He can’t help being tall,’ I said.

  ‘He’s not tall, Pearl, he’s incredibly freakily gigantically elongated,’ said Jodie.

  ‘Shut up,’ I said.

  ‘Pearl, don’t use that expression, it’s horrible.

  And I don’t know why you’re arguing. He is a bit freaky looking.’

  ‘You shut up too!’ I said.

  ‘Pearl!’ Mum looked astonished.

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  Jodie clapped her hands, roaring with laughter.

  She got told off too, but Mum didn’t put her usual energy into it. She kept nibbling at her lower lip, looking all around the room. She fiddled with the tattered strips of wallpaper.

  ‘You’ve made such a mess of it, girls,’ she said.

  She paused. ‘It looks like I’ve made a mess of things too. Maybe we’d have been better off staying where we were. Everything’s gone topsy-turvy. I thought it would be such a step up for us all, a chance for you girls to turn into little ladies, but look at you! You’re already running wild. Even you, Pearl. Imagine, telling me to shut up!’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mum,’ I said.

  ‘She was just upset because you were having a go at her Harley,’ said Jodie.

  ‘He’s not my Harley,’ I said hotly.

  ‘Then why are you blushing? He’s your boyfriend!’

  ‘Stop teasing her, Jodie. You’re being silly. You’re too young to have a boyfriend, let alone our Pearl.’

  She looked at us both. ‘So, what do you think? Is it a mistake, our coming here?’

  ‘Of course not. It’s lovely here,’ I said.

  ‘You really think so, Pearl?’ said Mum. ‘You’re such a bright girl. I wanted to give you the chance I never had. And this is a good school, and you’ll be able to be taught properly and you’ll talk nicely and have good manners – and never ever say shut up to your mother!’

  ‘ I’ll say shut up,’ said Jodie. ‘Excuse me, Mum, you’ve got two daughters, you know.’

  ‘Yes, I do know, and one of them drives me completely crackers,’ said Mum, pulling Jodie’s 134

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  spiky ponytail. ‘So? What do you think, Jodie? Are you happy here?’

  Jodie frowned. Then shrugged. ‘It’s a laugh,’ she said lightly. ‘So, can we get on with our wallpaper stripping?’

  ‘If you do it properly. I want every little scrap off.

  You need to soak it and use a scraper. Then I’ll see if Dad’s got time to give it a quick coat of emulsion.’

  ‘No, we’ll do it,’ said Jodie. ‘ Please, Mum.’

  ‘We’ll see,’ said Mum. ‘Get it all stripped first.

  Don’t you dare leave it looking such a mess.’

  ‘We’ll do it all, Mum, promise,’ I said.

  It took much, much longer than we thought.

  Jodie got fed up after a while and flopped down on her bed, her legs in the air, turning her feet at different angles to admire her high heels. I wanted to flop too but I kept patiently stripping. I hoped I might find more signs of the little servant girl – a scrap she’d stuck on the wall, her height marks, a little scribbled heart with the initials of her sweetheart – but there was nothing. I had to make her up. I started telling Jodie the story but she kept yawning.

  ‘Your stories are so girly, Pearly. Look, let me tell it.’

  I didn’t like the way she told it at all. She made the cook get more and more angry with the little servant girl, beating her with a wooden spoon, tapping her hands with her ladle, whacking her about the head with her saucepan . . .

  ‘Until one day little Kezia the kitchen maid got soooo fed up, she crept up behind the mean old cook, throttled her with her own apron strings, and then stuffed her in a giant pot and boiled her in a 135

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  great soup. Everyone feasted royally on the cook for a fortnight, smacking their greasy lips with pleasure.’

  ‘No they didn’t,’ I said. ‘Why do you always have to muck the story about, Jodie? It’s silly always making it creepy and weird. You always spoil stuff.’

  Jodie sat up. ‘OK,’ she said. ‘I won’t tell you any stories any more.’

  My stomach knotted. ‘I didn’t mean it,’ I said quickly.

  ‘Yes you did,’ said Jodie. She jumped to her feet.

  ‘I’m bored anyway. See you.’ She walked to the door, humming a little tune.

  ‘Jodie! Don’t go! Look, you can’t go. We promised Mum we’d finish scraping off the wallpaper,’ I said.

  ‘ You promised. So you finish it,’ said Jodie. ‘I’ve got better things to do.’

  ‘But that’s so mean! You can’t just leave me,’ I said.

  ‘Yes I can,’ said Jodie. She waved her hand in the air and went out of the door.

  ‘Come back!’ I called. ‘Don’t be like that. You know I love your stories. Jodie? Jodie, please.’

  I waited, my heart pounding. I hoped I might hear her shoes clip-clopping back along the corridor. She might just be playing a joke on me.

  She’d come bursting into the room any minute, laughing at me.

  But she didn’t.

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  I sat where I was, savouring every second of my happiness.

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  10

  I didn’t know what to do. I wondered about running after her, but I knew Mum would be so cross if we left the wallpaper half stripped. I couldn’t blame her. It did look very ugly with tatters hanging everywhere.

  I carried on for five minutes, scraping, picking, pulling. It was so much worse doing it all by myself.

  I felt more and more worried about Jodie. Maybe she’d be furious with me for not following her. I couldn’t stand the rare times when she was in a sulk with me. I flung my scraper down and went running after her, hoping she might be mooching about just outside the back door. There was no sign of her. I looked all around the back courtyard, then right round the front of the house. I still couldn’t see her.

  ‘Jodie?’ I called. ‘Jodie!’

  There was no answer. There was no point running all over the grounds when I had no clear 139

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  idea where she’d be. I ran back to the house, thudding along the gravel path, and then in through the back door. I wondered if she’d somehow crept back inside. She might be there in our bedroom, waiting for me. But the room was empty, looking uglier than ever.

  I felt like bursting into tears. I squeezed my eyes shut. ‘Don’t be such a baby,’ I whispered to myself.

  I picked up the scraper and started all over again.

  ‘I’ll show her,’ I muttered. ‘Why should I feel so bad? She’s the one who’s being mean. Mean mean mean. Why should I always do what she says just because she’s my sister?’

  I scraped scraped scraped. I felt as if I was scraping myself free from Jodie.

  I told my Kezia story to myself. Poor Kezia was feeling miserable because Pansy was mean to her, making her do half her work as well as her own. I scraped with renewed vigour, and when I’d got the last little shred of wallpaper off, I squatted down in the soft damp crinkled mound. I drew a tiny pencil portrait of Kezia, looking forlorn in her ugly uniform, her dress drooping down to her ankles, her boots much too big and sticking out sideways.

  Then I heard footsteps and jumped up hopefully

  – but it was Mum.

  I dropped the pencil on the floor and s