My Sister Jodie Read online

  ‘Then you could look at all her books. I’m sure she’d let you borrow some yourself,’ I said.

  ‘No, I’ve got things to do, party games to plan,’

  said Harley.

  I turned to Jodie and started begging her in turn.

  ‘No way. I wouldn’t even if you’d asked me first.

  I’ve got things to do too,’ she said huffily. ‘Go on. You go. You’re the one she wants to see.’

  I nudged up close to Jodie. ‘I’m scared,’ I whispered in her ear.

  ‘Look, you’re eleven now,’ she said. ‘Don’t be such a baby.’

  I thought about taking one of the little ones, but Miss Ponsonby said they all had to go with her. I was on my own.

  I fetched the copy of The Secret Garden. I’d enjoyed it so much I’d read it all over again. Jodie 201

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  had flicked through it, keen to pick up any gardening tips to impress Jed. She tossed it to one side after twenty minutes, wrinkling her nose.

  ‘I can’t think what you see in it, Pearl. It’s written all weird and old-fashioned and it’s such a waste. There’s this huge creepy house and mysterious crying at night and you think something really scary is going to happen, but it’s just this little invalid boy and he doesn’t even die to make a good weepy bit. He gets better. How tame is that!

  And the gardening bits aren’t much cop either.’

  I hugged The Secret Garden to my chest now, protecting it from Jodie’s scorn. I played I was Mary talking to Dickon as I walked along the path. The robin came and perched on my shoulder, and I carried the lamb in my arms. Dickon led me to a grassy bank and we sat down beside a badger set, waiting patiently. Dickon played a tune on his pipe and the badgers all came running, big ones, small ones, tiny baby cubs, all playing about our feet . . .

  I wanted to stay lost in my imaginary world but I was already outside the bungalow. I gripped my book, looking at the window. I couldn’t see any sign of Mrs Wilberforce. Maybe I could tell a little fib, pretend I’d knocked but could get no answer. I’d dawdled on the path. Maybe she was taking her afternoon nap already. Surely it would be rude to disturb her.

  The curtains twitched. I blinked anxiously at the window. I couldn’t see her, but perhaps she was behind the curtains peering out at me. I wanted to run away, but how would that make her feel? How awful if she thought I was like the little kids, scared because she was in a wheelchair. She wouldn’t 202

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  understand I was so stupidly shy that I was scared of everyone.

  But I was eleven now. Jodie was right. I wasn’t a baby any more. I took a deep breath, opened the gate and marched up the driveway to the bungalow.

  I rang the doorbell, pressing it firmly so it rang loud and clear. I waited, my heart beating fast.

  Then the door slowly opened, and there was Mrs Wilberforce smiling at me.

  ‘Hello, Pearl. Happy birthday.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said.

  ‘You look much older today,’ she said.

  ‘I wish!’

  ‘It’s funny, I always looked young for my age when I was a child. I used to get so cross about it!

  And yet now I’d give anything to look younger.’ She fingered a strand of her long wavy hair. In the daylight I saw that it was snowy-white, not blonde at all.

  ‘I think you look quite young,’ I said, though the deep lines on her face made her look ancient. She’d covered her pale cheeks with rouge and dabbed powder everywhere and painted her lips bright pink. The colour had started to run up all the little creases round her lips.

  She shook her head at me sadly. ‘My hair went white overnight when I had the accident,’ she said.

  She manoeuvred her wheelchair down the wide hallway and into her library. I took a deep breath.

  ‘The accident?’ I repeated in a tiny voice.

  ‘Yes, Pearl,’ she said. ‘When I fell and broke my neck.’ She looked down at her lifeless legs under her long dress.

  ‘When you fell?’ I whispered.

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  ‘In the tower,’ said Mrs Wilberforce. She looked at me. ‘Surely someone’s told you?’

  ‘Well, I sort of heard stuff, but I didn’t know whether it was true,’ I said. ‘I didn’t know whether to believe it.’

  ‘It’s true all right,’ she said. ‘I didn’t know whether to believe it either. I still don’t sometimes.

  I wake up, and just for a moment I’ve forgotten, and I think I can swing my legs out of bed and jump up

  – and then I try to move . . .’ Her eyes filled with tears.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ I said, feeling terrible.

  ‘No, no, I’m sorry. What am I doing, getting maudlin after all these years, and on your birthday too! I have a present for you, Pearl.’ She handed me an oblong parcel carefully wrapped in swirly marbled paper and tied with a lopsided bow. I thought of the care she must have taken to wrap the present one-handed, tucking the ends of the paper in, maybe tying the ribbon with her teeth. I wanted to cry too. I took the present, forgetting to say thank you. I was trying desperately to think of something positive to say.

  ‘Still, at least you didn’t get killed when you fell out of the tower. It’s such a long long long way down. It’s amazing that you survived.’

  She stared at me. ‘I didn’t fall out of the tower!

  Dear goodness, no one could survive that! I’d have been smashed to pieces on the forecourt.’

  ‘But didn’t you get tangled up in the ivy?’ I said.

  ‘Jodie said—’

  ‘No, no! Your sister Jodie’s got a very gothic imagination. I fell inside the tower, down the steps. I used to love to go up to the tower room. It was my 204

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  own private study. I had it as my bedroom when I was a little girl. It was a little cramped and uncomfortable and always very cold, and I had to go up and up all those winding stairs, but I thought it was worth it to have such a special room, like something in a fairy tale.’

  ‘I’d love it too,’ I said.

  ‘I’d go up there most nights even after I was grown up. I kept some of my favourite books up there. Sometimes I just stood at the window looking out at the moonlit countryside. Then one night I lost track of time and then I heard Harold –

  Mr Wilberforce – calling me. I hurried downstairs, just that little bit too quickly. I’d hurtled down those narrow little steps thousands of times, but this time I slipped. I tried to grab hold of the banister but it broke away and I fell. That’s my fairy story, where everything ends un happily ever after.’

  I stood shifting uncomfortably from one foot to the other, wishing I knew what to say. I felt my face going red.

  ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry! Let’s forget all about me.

  This is your special day. Come on, dear, open your present.’

  I started carefully undoing the paper. I could feel it was a book. I wondered which one she’d picked out for me. I let the wrapping paper slither to the floor and held it in my hands. It was beautiful, with a greeny-blue marbled cover and an olive leather spine and corners. I stroked it in awe and then opened it up. There was a blank page. I turned it over. Another blank page, and then another and another.

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  I looked at Mrs Wilberforce. ‘Where’s the story?’ I asked timidly.

  ‘Ah. It’s going to be your story, Pearl. It’s a manuscript book for your own stories. I bought it years ago in Italy but I could never think of anything to put in it. I wondered about keeping a journal, but what would I write now? Every entry would be identical. Got up, sat in my wheelchair, read, went to bed.’

  I struggled. ‘I could maybe push your wheelchair, Mrs Wilberforce, and take you for walks?’