The Amazing Mind of Alice Makin (16 page)

‘Alice, wait. There's something else, something you've got to have. It's important. Alice, wait.'

But I'm waiting for no one.

I
t drops through the letter box while I'm trying to eat some toast. Don't feel much like eating. An envelope with my name on it, but no stamp. I look at it. Feel . . . I can't really explain how I feel any more. It's like another life is growing around me, covering up the life I had. I'm the butterfly going back into the chrysalis. Everything seems the wrong way round.

I put the toast down. Pick up the envelope. I recognize Mrs Gilbey's handwriting straight away. I glance up at the old clock. Quickly start to put on my coat as I make my way out. I mustn't be late for school again. Try to eat my toast while putting my coat on. Not one of my best ideas. Get margarine everywhere.

I start to read the note walking along. Not even a note really, just a few scribbled lines saying how there's something inside the envelope that Mum had wanted to give to me the other day. I start to feel nervous, my fingers tremble. It's like the story my mum was telling me still isn't over.

I shake the envelope. Something falls out into my hand. It's a bit of a photograph. Been torn in half. It's shadowy. Bit out of focus. Looks like a man holding a baby. One arm cradles the baby and the other seems to be going around someone's shoulder. A woman, I think, but whoever she is she's not in my half of the photo, so I can't tell for sure. I look back at the note, puzzled.

‘. . . I know you were upset, Alice, but your mum was only doing what she thought was best. Try to remember that. Anyway, she thought it was also time you had this. Apparently it was found in that old biscuit tin of yours. Remarkable, isn't it? It was right by you when they found you.

‘The photo looks like it's been taken in a garden; you can see some trees and the house in the background. It's a bit gloomy though, I had to get my magnifying glass. Your mum said they thought the baby must be you, so maybe the man holding you is your real dad. Wish we had the other half; that would make things a bit clearer. Your mum says no one knows who took it or how it got torn or where the other half of it is. Strange it was left in your old tin though.'

I look at the face of the little girl. She doesn't look much like me, but then babies change. Grow up. She's got a fat face, a little bonnet falls half over it. It makes me smile.

Mrs Gilbey's right. It is a garden and there are trees: that's what's making the photo dark. Casting shadows. I try to see who it is who's holding me. A ragged tear rips
through the figure, but through the shadows I can just see the man's face. He's looking down at me and he's smiling.

For just a second I get that feeling; the feather touching my face feeling. Which is strange because as far as I know I'm not in trouble. I sigh. Put the photo back in my pocket for safety. Another problem I can't solve. Another mystery I'll never get to the bottom of. I make my way to school.

I'm trying to concentrate on the writing on the board, but I can't. The numbers jumble themselves up before my eyes. I try to do the sums but my thoughts scatter. Miss Lacey comes up to me in class and whispers in my ear. Sister Vincent wants to see me. She's never asked to see me before. I think she must know.

I make my way out of the classroom, feeling as if everybody is looking at me. As if they all know that I'm adopted. That I have no real mum or dad. I go down the stairs and into the corridor. Her room is on the left-hand side, just before the door that leads to the playground. The door is half open. I knock.

‘Come in.'

It's a cross between a big cupboard and a small room. Untidy. Stacks of papers, piles of plimsolls, paperweights and potted plants. A filing cabinet is shoehorned into a corner. There's no window. A light is on.

Sister Vincent is tall. Fills the room. She's writing with a fountain pen. She has a kind face. Looks up as if she has forgotten who I am, or why she sent for me. She stops writing and carefully puts the top on the pen. That's the
way I would do it if I had a fountain pen – thoughtfully, as if I were screwing up wonderful ideas. Storing them in the pen case until I'm next ready to use them.

She shuffles the papers together. ‘Ah, Alice, come in.' She points to the chair.'

She looks unsure. Waits until I'm sitting down. Then says, ‘I had a lady in to see me yesterday, a Mrs Gilbey. She lives quite close to you, I believe.'

She stops, as if giving me a space to say something, like I
should
say something, but I'm learning not to fill those spaces.

‘She tells me things have been difficult for you for a while now.' She reads the look in my eyes, ‘It's all right, Alice. She wouldn't say exactly what the problem was . . .' She gives a little, uncertain smile. It plays around the corners of her mouth. Cat and mouse.

It dawns on me why I'm here. She wants me to tell her myself. She is nice and kind, but I don't want to say anything to her. Not here. Not now. In some ways I wish I could.

‘. . . I just thought maybe you . . .'

I stay silent. Mouse escapes. Cat vexed.

‘It's important that we know these things, you know. If there are problems at home . . .'

Relents.

‘Anyway, I know your mother is in hospital and Mrs Gilbey was worried that you would be . . .' again the pause ‘. . . all right?'

‘I'll be fine, Sister.'

‘Are you sure, my dear?'

I'm not really sure if I'm sure of anything any more. I look at my feet. Funny how you do that when you don't know what to say. Look at your feet, as if they know something you don't.

Sister Vincent waits. I shuffle. She gives a long sigh. ‘Ah, well. So be it. You are in our prayers. I thought you should know that.'

‘Thank you, Sister.'

I breathe a sigh of relief. Be glad to get out.

‘God bless you, child. How is your mother, by the way?'

I want to say, ‘I don't know who my mother is, Sister.' I say, ‘Fine, thank you.'

She turns back to her papers. Picks up her pen. Just as I'm about to leave she says, ‘Sister Bernadette tells me that your play is going well.'

‘Thank you, Sister.'

‘It's an interesting story.' She smiles. ‘Very interesting. Where did you get the idea from?'

‘I don't know, Sister.' Never really thought about it before.

‘Off you go then, Alice. We'll remember you all in our prayers.'

When the bell goes for the end of the day I walk out into the front playground. Summer's a tease. Hot one minute, cold the next. A grey sky falls on me. Sits half an inch above my head, pressing down, squashing out the light.

I walk home not really noticing anything. My feelings are so mixed up. I still love my mum, but she isn't my mum. Does that make any difference? I have half a photograph and half a life. I'm a bit scared, but deep down I know I have to find out what's going on. Why is it that Reggie turns up and all this stuff starts? If he is telling the truth, what's happening to the two of us and why?

The questions jumble in my head so that there's no room for anything else. I have no way of answering any of them. I don't even know where to start. Suddenly I'm almost home. I turn the corner.

Reggie's sitting on the pavement outside our flats. He sees me and waves. Flash is beside him, his chin resting on the ground.

I wave back. I wonder how long he's been sitting there. He gets up. Funny, me and Reggie. We seem to go round in circles, never quite touching each other. Musical-chairs friendship, with one chair and music that never stops. Round and round. Flash gets up, yawns and stretches; rolls over for a tickle.

Reggie smiles. ‘C-coming out?'

I nod. Do my best to smile back. Best isn't good enough. My voice sounds hard. ‘I am out.'

He looks hurt. ‘Yes. S-silly question.'

I feel sorry. It's not his fault.

So, I say it. ‘Sorry.'

‘What f-for?'

‘For what I said last time.'

‘Yes, so am I.'

‘What you sorry for?'

Gets his own back. ‘For what you s-said last time.' He grins. ‘Even if I can't remember what it was.'

‘I called you a liar. Think I might have said bloody liar.'

‘That's a double apology, then.'

‘Don't push your luck, mate.'

He grins. I realize I'm hungry. ‘I'll just get a piece of bread and jam. Want some?'

He nods.

I go in first: check that Bert isn't home. Then I let us both into the front room. It's damp and empty, as if no one has lived here for years. The room smells of old cooking. Plaster is peeling off the walls. I put on a light. It helps a bit. I open the cupboard. There's some bread there, stale but not mouldy.

‘You all right?'

‘Here, pass me that jam, will you? Crust OK?'

‘Yeah, I like crusts. I s-said are you all right?'

‘I heard you.'

I can feel him looking at me. I don't look at him. Then he reaches out. Touches my hand.

‘It'll be all right s-soon, Alice.'

‘You reckon?'

I pass him the crust.

Maybe I still need more time to get things right in my own head. I wonder if there's enough time in the world to do that.

The jam is sweet. You can taste the strawberries. Reggie looks funny with his lips red from the jam. He tosses a bit to Flash, who wolfs his down in no time and stands looking up for more.

Reggie says, ‘If you want t-to talk to me about things . . . ?'

‘Thanks.'

The sun peeks out to see if anyone has noticed it's been hiding. Should be ashamed of itself. We go out and just walk. Anywhere. Aimless. End up over near the bombed houses, where we had the bonfire. You can still see where it was. I kick fragments of charred wood like I expect to find something there. A bit of magic maybe.

There was a storm last week. Most of the canvas that we used as a roof over the air-raid shelter was ripped off. What's left flaps about like a bird trying to take off. The place feels sad. Most of the things we kept inside – the comics, a few games – are lying in damp piles.

We look around for the canvas. Don't find it. I check in my hiding place for the biscuit tin. It's still there. I touch the lid for luck. Peer at the picture of the little girl. Wish I was with her in that field with the faded blue sky overhead. Wonder again what that is on the ground near her. I try to see what's under the rust spots and cracked paint. I do that every time, as if one day it'll suddenly be clear.

‘You all right?'

‘What?'

‘You keep s-staring at that tin.'

‘Yeah. Fine. Just wondering.'

‘What about?'

‘Nothing.'

I put it back. Pick up bits and pieces of our things – I don't know why – like I'm trying to put something back together again that won't go.

Reggie takes out his knife, picks up a piece of wood and starts to cut slivers from it. The wood shavings make patterns on the ground. Curls of white wood against the black earth, like writing. He cuts down hard. Pulls the knife through the wood, slicing it in two. Then he picks up the large piece and begins to sharpen it to a point. He uses the wood like a dart, throwing it into the ground.

Flash thinks it's a game, seizes his opportunity, grabs it and runs off, shaking it like a rat.

Then, for some reason, I make up my mind. ‘Reggie?'

I hear in my voice that I'm going to tell him. He looks up.

‘Something happened the other night. It might have just been a nightmare but . . .'

I tell him about the snake-belt, but even as I'm doing it things get mixed up in my head. I was asleep. I woke up. I know Bert hit me: I had the marks to prove it, but what about the other stuff?

Did I really make him see what I was seeing, or was it just my imagination working overtime? Maybe I only dreamed that part. Veronica told me once that when you're sleeping you sometimes make things happen in your
dreams that you wished had happened in real life.

Reggie doesn't say anything for a while. We just walk.

‘I know you're confused about things, Alice, b-but it's like I told you. You're f-finding out about yourself now. Soon you'll know. Until then we have to stick together. That way we'll be stronger.'

‘But what do I have to do?'

‘B-believe in yourself. Believe that you can do anything.' He pauses. ‘What about your stepdad? What did he say about what happened?'

‘Nothing. He's hardly home now but . . .'

‘But what?'

‘I get the feeling that he's always around.'

‘What d'you m-mean?'

‘Can't explain, just like wherever I am he's there too, watching me. Like he knows . . .'