My Sister Jodie Read online

  ‘No, no!’ Mum said quickly. ‘No, we didn’t want to arrive too early, like.’ The ‘like’ jumped out of her lips before she could stop it. She clamped her mouth shut, going red.

  ‘I think we’re all spot on time,’ said Miss French, opening the gate and marching up the wide pathway.

  We followed along behind her. Miss French rapped hard at the door. Mum took a step backwards, obviously worried the Wilberforces would think it was her hammering at their front door. It opened almost immediately, as if someone had been crouching on the other side. Mum went redder.

  ‘Hello hello hello,’ said a tall man with a beard.

  He was wearing a very grubby yellow cardigan with leather buttons, two of them missing, a checked shirt with a frayed collar, very baggy corduroy trousers and slippers.

  ‘How do you do, Mr Wilberforce,’ said Mum, sounding strained. ‘Girls, this is the head of Melchester College.’

  Jodie burst out laughing, startling us. ‘Don’t be daft, Mum, he’s the gardener,’ she said.

  ‘Jodie!’ said Mum, giving her a little shake.

  ‘Button it, Jodie,’ Dad whispered, looking agonized.

  ‘No, no, I am the gardener. Your daughter and I 68

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  met up earlier in the kitchen garden. I am also the headmaster here at the college, but that’s just the day job. I’m only really happy rootling away like a pig in . . . whatsit. Isn’t that right, Frenchie?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ said Miss French, chuckling.

  ‘Do come in, Mr and Mrs Wells. It’s wonderful to see you. I hope you’re settling in nicely. Now, I’ve already met you, Little Miss Raspberry Guzzler.

  And you must be . . .?’ He bent towards me.

  ‘This is Pearl,’ said Mum. ‘Say how do you do to Mr Wilberforce, Pearl.’

  I mumbled it foolishly, wishing I wasn’t so shy.

  Jodie had already bounded inside. Then she stopped so abruptly that I bumped into her. There was a woman in a wheelchair in the hallway. She had an embroidered Spanish shawl wrapped round her legs. She was quite old, her face wrinkled under thick make-up, her ash-blonde hair falling in soft waves past her shoulders. She was wearing a loose floaty lilac dress, with big amethyst beads round her neck and several huge rings on her small white hands. Only one of her arms worked. She gestured with it, while the other arm hung down, the hand clenched.

  ‘Are you Mrs Wilberforce?’ Jodie asked uncertainly.

  I think we were both scared she couldn’t talk properly. She hesitated, and then took a deep breath. She smiled politely, though her eyes didn’t light up.

  ‘Yes, I am, my dear. And you are . . . Josie?’

  ‘Jodie. And this is my sister, Pearl.’

  ‘How lovely to meet you both, Jodie and Pearl.

  Come into the sitting room. Make yourselves comfortable on the sofa.’

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  We sat down obediently, Jodie stroking the slippery satin cushions and saying how pretty they were.

  ‘Hey, hey, off that sofa! You two sit on the little chairs,’ said Mum, bustling into the room.

  ‘Mrs Wilberforce told us to sit here,’ said Jodie.

  ‘Didn’t you?’

  ‘Indeed I did,’ she said. ‘Please, all of you, come and sit down. Harold, darling, would you pour everyone a drink? What would you like, Mrs Wells?’

  Mum hesitated. She didn’t drink anything alco-holic at home, and the rare times we all had lunch in a pub garden Mum had a lemonade shandy.

  ‘I’d like a sherry, please,’ she said, rather desperately.

  ‘Certainly. Amontillado coming straight up,’ said Mr Wilberforce. ‘Frenchie, you’ll have your usual G

  and T? And what about you, sir?’ He looked at Dad.

  ‘Don’t suppose you’ve got a beer . . . sir?’ said Dad.

  Mum glared at him, but Mr Wilberforce grinned.

  ‘You bet I have. Bottle for you, bottle for me.

  Cynthia, wine? And what about you two young ladies?’

  ‘We’re not fussy,’ said Jodie. ‘I’d really like a beer, but wine will be fine.’

  Mum opened her mouth but Mr Wilberforce was rocking with laughter.

  ‘You’ll have half a thimble-full of wine and count yourself lucky, Miss Cheeky,’ he said. ‘What about you, little Pearl? Don’t tell me you’re a beer girl too.’

  ‘She’d like an orange juice, please,’ said Mum.

  I felt like a ventriloquist’s dummy, unable to 70

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  answer for myself. Jodie chatted away to everyone and they all laughed at her. Mum kept giving her warning looks but Dad beamed at her proudly. I sat on the edge of the sofa, legs dangling, sipping my orange juice carefully. I peered all around the room.

  There were paintings of ballet dancers in fluffy tutus exercising at the bar, and white china dancers pirouetting, permanently poised on one toe. I wondered if Mrs Wilberforce had been a ballet dancer herself and had had some tragic accident on stage, leaving her crippled in her chair. I pointed my feet this way and that, copying the dance positions.

  ‘Pearl! Stop fidgeting! And mind you don’t mark the sofa!’ Mum hissed.

  Mr Wilberforce and Miss French and Dad were all chatting about the garden and the grounds and playing fields and then cricket, with Jodie cutting in and saying funny stuff. Mum was a bit left out of the conversation.

  She turned towards Mrs

  Wilberforce, who was staring into space, making no attempt to be a hostess.

  ‘Can I help with anything in the kitchen, Mrs Wilberforce?’ said Mum. ‘Seeing as you’re . . .’

  Mrs Wilberforce raised her eyebrows. ‘No, no, it’s fine,’ she said firmly. She saw me looking agonized.

  ‘Are you all right, Pearl?’ she asked.

  I nodded, ducking my head.

  ‘You’re very quiet!’ said Mrs Wilberforce.

  ‘It’s our Jodie who’s the chatterbox,’ said Mum.

  ‘Perhaps this one can’t get a word in edgeways,’

  said Mrs Wilberforce. She nodded at me, tossing her long pale hair. ‘Tell me all about yourself.’

  My mouth went dry. I tried to swallow.

  ‘She’s a bit shy,’ said Mum.

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  ‘Come on,’ Mrs Wilberforce commanded.

  ‘Well,’ I said. Everyone else had stopped talking.

  ‘Well,’ I repeated. The silence was unnerving. ‘Well.’

  ‘Wella wella wella,’ sang Jodie, starting the old Grease song, jogging up and down on the sofa.

  Everyone laughed, but Mrs Wilberforce wouldn’t let me off so lightly.

  ‘Ssh!’ she said to Jodie, her fingers to her lips.

  ‘Let your sister talk.’

  ‘Well, my name’s Pearl and I’m nearly eleven though I know I look heaps younger,’ I said in a rush. They were all looking at me. I looked down at my lap, my hands clasped tight. I waited. It wasn’t enough.

  ‘Talk about school, Pearl,’ Mum prompted. ‘She’s very bright, even though she’s so quiet. Always top of the class.’

  ‘Mum!’ I said. It sounded such awful showing off.

  ‘Which subject do you like best?’ said Mr Wilberforce.

  ‘Well . . . literacy. And art,’ I said.

  ‘So you like reading?’

  ‘Never got her head out of a book,’ Mum said proudly, though she often told me off for reading so much, saying I’d strain my eyes and develop a squint.

  ‘Good to hear it,’ said Mr Wilberforce. ‘Cynthia’s a great reader, aren’t you, darling?’

  ‘Come with me, Pearl,’ she said.

  She wheeled herself out of the living room, bracelets jingling. Mum gave me a little push. I didn’t want to follow her, but I shuffled obediently in her wake. We went down a corridor