Flower (2 page)

Step works long hours, so Dad and I more or less continue our routine: we shop and take turns cooking, but I hardly ever have any real time with him. We’re not a family anymore. There are the two of them and there’s me, and I’m the one who’s supposed to adapt.

The day after tomorrow, they’re shipping me off to Halifax for three weeks to stay with my grandparents. It was all arranged when Gran and Grandfather came down for the wedding. They’ve just retired and are converting an old Victorian house into a bed-and-breakfast. I was actually looking forward to going until a couple of weeks ago, when Dad casually announced that he’d been invited to give a talk at a science conference in London. He must have told Stephanie before he told me because she immediately said that Giles would be thrilled to get rid of her
(I bet)
while she’s away.

“Dad, that’s fantastic,” I said. “I’ll check the Net and see what plays are on in London.” Not that I was thrilled at having to share the trip with Step, but with luck she’d be shopping full-time, so maybe Dad and I would get a chance to do some stuff on our own. “How long are we staying? How much time will we have to go sightseeing after the conference? Can we visit the Yorkshire Moors? Wait till I tell Angie I’m actually going to the place where
The Secret Garden
happens.”

“Katie, I’m afraid you’re not coming with us this time,” Dad said.

My hands went icy cold. I couldn’t bear to look at Step. She must have known all along that I wasn’t going. I bet she begged Dad to leave me at home. At that moment I didn’t just not like her much, I hated her.

“What do you mean, I’m not going, Dad?”

Step mumbled something about making more coffee and headed for the kitchen.

“You promised to visit your grandparents and they’re looking forward to seeing you, Katie. It wouldn’t be right to disappoint them. This is a working holiday, lots of chicken talk. You’d be bored,” Dad said.

“That’s the most pathetic excuse I’ve ever heard. Why can’t you at least be honest and say you don’t want me tagging along? Dad, I won’t get in the way, I promise. I can go places on my own.”

“Sorry, Katie, not this time. Stephanie needs a change and so do I. It’s only for three weeks. We’ll be back by the time you come home.”

“It doesn’t feel like home to me anymore. You don’t care what happens to me. How can you be so mean? Three weeks in England and you’re going without me and taking her?”

“Stop the dramatics, Kaitlin. The world cannot revolve around what
you
want all the time. You’ll have other opportunities to travel.”

“Right, I’m holding my breath.”

“I don’t want to hear another word about this. Go to your room.”

I stormed out, slamming the door as hard as I could.

Next day Stephanie brought me home a pair of designer jeans. Typical–it just showed how brainless, how insensitive she is. A pair of jeans was supposed to make me feel better?

“No, thank you. Do you really think this makes up for leaving me behind?” I said icily, and didn’t give her a chance to reply. We all kept out of each other’s way for the next few days.

On the second to last night before we go away on holiday, traditionally Dad and I go through the fridge, looking for leftovers. Any food that isn’t green with mold or actually walking comes under the knife. Ancient carrots, dried-up mushrooms, onions, whatever we can find is stir-fried. I pour the result over brown rice and somehow it always tastes great. Then, on the last night, when we’re all packed, we eat out.

When I walked into the kitchen after school today, Dad was already busy grating a lump of old cheddar cheese. He smiled at me as though nothing had happened. I stood beside him and began to chop tomatoes and onions. He’d even got the rice started.

Step came in and put a box down. I opened it.
Ugh, chocolate cheesecake, disgusting.

Dad said, “Hello, darling, supper’s almost ready.” He gave me a look, warning me not to say anything about dessert.

We’d just finished the last of the risotto when Dad said, “We have something to tell you.” I thought he was going to surprise me–say it was all a joke and that they were going to take me to England after all. But when I glanced across the table, Step was looking at Dad, and he was looking at her. They’d forgotten all about me and my stomach was in knots, waiting for Dad to speak.

“Can’t you guess, Kate?” Step said.

I felt like saying, “I hate guessing games,” but instead I looked at Dad and said, “Guess what?”

“We’re going to have a baby, around the middle of December.” Dad beamed and held Step’s hand. “We’ve been waiting to tell you, Katie. We thought tonight was a good time.”

No, Dad, this was not a good time to tell me, in fact, it was a lousy time.
Instead I forced myself to congratulate them. “Who wants some of Stephanie’s delicious cake?” I inquired sweetly, and started to clear the table, wishing I had enough guts to accidentally drop the cake on Step’s lap.

My birthday’s on December 17th. I’ll be fourteen, practically old enough to be the kid’s mother.
I hope no one’s expecting me to get up in the night to look after it.

Step offered to help clean up, but I said, “Don’t bother, I’ll do it.” That’s all I needed at that moment, sweet baby talk in the kitchen.

“I think I’ll go up to bed, then. I’m tired. Thanks for supper, Kate.” She kissed Dad’s cheek and went upstairs.

I headed into the kitchen to load the dishwasher. Dad followed me and put his hand on my shoulder. I shrugged it away, and turned to look at him. “Another mouth to feed, Dad?” It was meant to be funny. I guess it turned out sounding the way I really felt, which was pretty upset.

“Katie, can’t you be happy about this, make room for the baby? There is room for all of us, you know.”

“You forgot
me
, Dad. There doesn’t seem to be much room for
me
lately. Oh, and by the way, Angie asked me over tomorrow night, so I won’t be going out for dinner with you and Step. Good night.” Dad knew I was lying, but I didn’t care.

A little while later I heard him come upstairs. I turned off the light and pretended to be asleep. He knocked on my door. I didn’t answer. He came in anyway, tucked the duvet round my shoulders, and stood quietly for a minute. Then he left, closing the door behind him.

I felt too miserable to even open my journal. I stared up at Mom’s picture and wished I still believed she was there, making everything alright again.

M
y mother’s name is Helen. She lives in, and I live out.

I’ve been boarded in ever so many places since I was a baby. I’m six, getting on for seven. At Mrs. Riley’s, where I am now, I hem hankies. All day I sit and hem. She slaps me when the stitches are crooked or too big, then I have to do them over. Mrs. Riley says I sew with the wrong hand. She won’t let me use my left hand, my
bad
hand she calls it, but that’s the only way I can hem. I don’t like sewing. Mrs. Riley watches me and hits my knuckles with the wooden spoon if she catches me using my
bad
hand.

When Queen Victoria died last year, we were sewing black armbands all day long. Even the twins, Ethel and Esther, and they’re younger than me, were helping.
Rosie’s got poor eyes; she can hardly see. Mrs. Riley hates her more than any of us. She gets money paid regular for Rosie–that’s why she keeps her.

Mrs. Riley likes her own boy, Bert. He’s big and mean, always pinching us. I told Helen he looks up our dresses, and she sighed and said, “Keep out of his way.”

The girls sleep together in the bed upstairs. The twins wet the bed, and Mrs. Riley gives them a whipping most days, but not too hard. At the place I was in before this, at Mrs. Tompkins’, there were seven children. We slept on the floor after she sold the mattress for drink. Helen took me away from there quick as a wink when she found out. “Don’t you ever touch a drop, Lillie, you hear me? Drink gets you in trouble.”

I try to remember everything Helen tells me. I think over the words after she’s gone back to that big house, where she works for the lords and ladies, and I whisper them to Rosie when the others are asleep. That way I don’t forget.

Helen told me we have to pretend we’re sisters. I’m not to tell anyone she’s my mother, but I
know
she is, it’s just that I have to keep it a secret. “I was sixteen when I had you,” she said. “If Madam knew I got a little girl and no husband, I’d lose my place.”

Helen comes to see me every other Sunday afternoon, and sometimes on Wednesdays. Then she pays Mrs. Riley, who always counts the money Helen gives
her before putting it in the teapot on the mantelpiece. Sometimes Helen can’t come because she has too much work at the house. She says I mustn’t mind, so I try not to. No one ever comes to see Rosie.

Helen and I do special things. Once she took me for a ride on a horse-drawn bus. After we stepped down, the street sweeper winked at Helen, and she tossed her head so that the feather on her hat wobbled. I laughed out loud. Helen pushed her hat pin more firmly into her hair–her hair’s golden brown, not black like mine. Mrs. Riley calls me a little Gypsy because my hair’s so dark. Helen’s ever so pretty. “Cheeky blighter, we can do better than the likes of him, eh, Lillie?” she said.

The house where Helen works is very grand. The dining table seats twenty-four, she told me. She sleeps at the top of the house with Gertie, who helps Nanny with Miss Sadie and Master Rupert and the new baby that lies in a cradle covered with muslin and ribbon and lace. Helen said once, “See, Lillie, I’m not always going to be the maid of all work, filling coal scuttles and polishing grates. One day I’ll be a lady’s maid, bring Madam her breakfast and arrange her hair, lay out her gown and help her dress when she goes to the opera at Covent Garden. You’ve got to aim for something in life, Lillie.”

She looked at me then, really looked, and said, “Is that Mrs. Riley treating you fair? Feeds you alright, does she?” It wouldn’t do to tell Helen I’m hungry all the
time, that Bert snatches the bread off our plates. If I get moved again, it could be worse. Best to say nothing about it.

One Wednesday Helen comes and says, “Today’s your birthday, Lillie. You’re seven years old, so I’ve brought you a present. It’s a picture postcard. Do you like it? That’s the famous Lillie Langtry. She’s the most beautiful lady in London … well, after Queen Alexandra, that is. She’s a great friend of King Edward, the one who used to be Prince Bertie. Lillie always wears black, to show off her beautiful white skin. Doesn’t she have lovely hair and eyes? You’ve got nice brown eyes too, Lillie.”

In the afternoon we cross the Albert Bridge and look down at the River Thames. Helen says, “Ooh, I would like to go on one of those big ships across the ocean.” Helen’s always wishing for things. It makes me shiver to look down into that dark water.

We walk along the embankment. My feet hurt, but Helen likes to show me the fine ladies and gentlemen, and the smart carriages driving along. “Can we sit down for a bit, Helen? I’m tired,” I say.

“Try thinking about something nice and you’ll soon forget you’re tired…. Well, look who’s here, that’s a surprise. I didn’t expect to see him.”

Helen straightens her hat and smiles up at a young man, who whips off his cap and smiles back at her.

“Good afternoon, Miss Helen, this is a pleasure. And who might this be?” he asks, looking down at me.

Helen squeezes my fingers hard. There is no need to do that–I know when to keep quiet.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Charles. My little sister and I are taking a walk; it’s her birthday. Say hello to the gentleman, Lillie. He’s the under footman where I work.”

“Hello,” I whisper.

“Doesn’t look much like you, does she?” He smiles again at Helen, and her cheeks go pink.

“Her father, my mother’s second husband, was a sailor from Malta. She takes after him. She’s his spitting image, with all those dark curls. He’s dead now.”

This is the first time Helen has mentioned my father. I look at her.
Is it true, or is she telling a fib?

“Come on, Lillie, I’ve got to get you home,” Helen says. But she’s standing here looking up at Mr. Charlie, in no hurry to leave as far as I can tell.